Isn't the demand for loyalty merely a way to feed our own egotistical sense of superiority?
Mazen woke each morning with the first rays of the sun, rising as if on instinct. After dressing in the evening attire he had prepared the night before, he made his way to breakfast. The dining room was laid out with a lavish spread, but Mazen always sat alone at the head of the table.
He couldn't bear the thought of enduring the presence of a servant for any longer than absolutely necessary. So, he ate alone. His breakfast, as always, was waiting for him on the table—perfectly arranged and untouched by others.
Mazen had inherited this house—not by right, but by design. He had visited the former owner, altered his memories and will to leave everything to him, and then, shortly after, eliminated him. The house had a few remaining staff: a cleaning lady, a cook, and a gardener. But Mazen had no claim on the other servants. When they had first introduced themselves, he had quickly slipped into their minds, altering their thoughts and bending them to his will. They were mages—weak, but mages nonetheless—and Mazen knew their real names, giving him power over them. This was how he kept his followers close, bound by unspoken allegiance.
The other servants had been disposed of. Only the three who had shown wisdom in keeping their distance were allowed to remain. They served him well, and in return, he left their lives undisturbed. It was an arrangement they both understood.
After finishing his meal, Mazen made his way to the great hall, where his followers were waiting, their only purpose to serve him in whatever way he demanded. At his arrival, they bowed their heads in respect.
"I'm leaving for a while," Mazen said, his voice calm and commanding. "You, my loyal followers, gather all the information you can about the possible heirs to the throne. When you return, I expect a full report."
The hooded figures moved toward the door, prepared for their task.
"Felicián," Mazen called, and one of the henchmen halted immediately. "You will come with me."
The boy obeyed without hesitation, following Mazen through the winding corridors of the mansion. Felicián kept his distance, his mind curious about what his master had in store for him.
When Mazen stopped outside his bedroom, Felicián couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. He tried to keep his thoughts shielded, though he suspected his master could see right through him. He was thankful for the hood that concealed most of his face.
"You'll stay here," Mazen said, giving him a distracted glance before entering his room and closing the door. Moments later, the door opened again, and Mazen stood in the threshold, holding a flask with something inside.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, pointing to the moving paper inside the flask.
Felicián shook his head, his face flushed with embarrassment. He feared punishment for not knowing the answer.
"You've only been here a month," Mazen remarked, his tone unexpectedly casual. "I don't expect you to have all the answers yet. In fact, I don't hold unrealistic expectations—only, my followers have yet to prove themselves capable of the tasks I give them."
Mazen's gaze returned to the flask, his expression growing more focused.
"This paper contains a magical imprint," he explained. "Because of the tracking spell, it tries to return to its owner. It's a magical compass."
Felicián frowned, confused. "To whom does it belong?"
"A famous seer," Mazen answered simply.
"A seer?" Felicián repeated, his curiosity piqued.
"Have you heard of the Seer Mother?" Mazen asked, his voice sharp with interest.
Felicián's eyes widened in shock. Of course he had heard of her—everyone had. She was the most famous seer in the country, a legend in her own right.
Mazen's lips curled into a subtle smile as he watched the boy's reaction, or more accurately, listened to it. Felicián's awe was palpable, and Mazen could hear his thoughts swirling with excitement. The boy noticed this too and a thought crossed his mind—perhaps it was time he learned to close his mind completely.
"Actually," Mazen said, speaking directly to the boy's unspoken thought, "I was about to suggest that. You're coming with me this time too, so you can gain some experience. I have an important task planned for you in the future."
Felicián simply nodded.
(...)
Less than an hour later, they stood in the sanctuary of a monastery. Felicián was struck with awe as Lord Mazen swiftly found and revealed a hidden door. Without hesitation, the altar slid away, unveiling a seemingly endless flight of stairs descending into darkness.
"You can conjure light for yourself, right?" Mazen asked, his tone more a statement than a question.
Felicián was tired—his lord had graciously left him to execute the guards who protected the seer—but almost immediately he raised his palm, from which a tongue of blue flame flickered lazily.
His magic resembled that of Mazen's long-lost friend, but it differed in execution. Felicián could envelop himself in flames for protection, using the fire to augment his physical attacks. Though not particularly talented, Mazen kept him for his loyalty rather than his magical prowess.
He had proven to be one of Mazen's most devoted followers, his admiration for the dark mage's power sealing his fate. From the moment they had met, Felicián had decided to stay by Mazen's side. He wondered sometimes if Mazen would really succeed in bringing the world under his rule. But it was no question. Mazen knew he would succeed.
"All right," Mazen began, walking ahead.
Mazen did not need light. He had concocted a potion in his youth to sharpen his vision, and now, the spell he used on Felicián was a diluted version of that.
They descended the long flight of stairs into a cavern wide enough to feel otherworldly. The faint light revealed tiny droplets of water glistening mysteriously on the rocks. Magic hung thick in the air, a lingering presence that explained the seer's near-legendary accuracy. Perhaps this cave had witnessed her visions for years.
As they ventured deeper, the magical compass in Mazen's possession began to pull toward something—toward her. They found her.
Their footsteps echoed ominously as they approached. The firelight flickered across the form of an old woman, kneeling in prayer before a crystal ball resting on a velvet cushion. Her eyes remained closed, unmoved by their arrival.
"If you are as gifted as the rumors say, you know why I've come," Mazen declared, his voice laced with authority.
"I know why you've come, Mazen," the old woman replied without hesitation. "But you may leave with something other than what you seek."
Felicián stiffened at the sharpness of her words. The old hag had a sharp tongue. He glanced at Mazen, uncertain whether this exchange would take a dangerous turn. But when Mazen's lips curled into a grin, Felicián felt a shiver of something darker. The few who had seen that grin never had the chance to scream.
Mazen's patience was thin, but he chose to remain still, watching the seer carefully. He needed to understand what the future held before making any moves.
"You are a brave woman," Mazen said with a begrudging respect, "but I will not tolerate insolence. If you intend to survive this meeting, I suggest you choose your words wisely."
"You threaten me in vain," the seer shot back, meeting his gaze without fear. "I will not die at your hands."
Felicián felt a chill. The woman's face was wrinkled, her features twisted with age, but it was her eyes that made his blood run cold. Both irises were almost completely white, her cataracts giving her an unsettling, blind appearance. But what truly unnerved him was the way her gaze seemed to land directly on Mazen, as if she could see through the darkness.
"How can you be so certain?" Mazen asked, a mocking tone in his voice.
"I have seen," the woman replied curtly. "He who defeats you will come and take my life. From the moment he takes the throne, I alone will see what awaits him. And he knows well the danger my very existence poses to him. But I don't mind," she added with a bitter grimace. "These filthy monks won't even allow me to die in peace."
Mazen remained motionless for a long moment, not listening to her long monologue. Only the words 'He who defeats you' repeated like a haunting refrain in his mind. His thoughts raced—Who defeats me? Noone can defeat me! His fists clenched tightly.
"You say someone will defeat me?" Mazen sneered, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You're mistaken, seer. I will be the one to take the throne."
"You will try," the woman said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But you will march toward your doom, Mazen. Not yet strong enough, but one day, he will be. He will surpass you, and you won't be able to stop him. You need not wait for that day—if you attack now, you will fail. The boy has had the power from birth to rise and rule."
Her finger shot out, pointing at Mazen's chest with startling precision.
"The Hueless King will rise to the throne of glass, and you, Mazen," she said, her voice heavy with finality, "will help him—whether you like it or not."
Mazen's teeth ground together, a low growl escaping him. "Who are you talking about? I will find him, and I will kill him!"
The old woman's lips quirked slightly. "I thought you were smarter than that," she remarked, her voice as sharp as ever.
"I don't want your opinion," Mazen hissed, the words coming out between clenched teeth as he swiftly cast a spell.
Felicián was astounded. When Mazen had cursed his own powerful followers, they had shrieked in agony, begging for mercy. But the old woman—frail, bent, blind—did nothing but remain silent. When Mazen finally grew bored, he released the curse. She gasped, the air seemingly sucked from her lungs, and she propped herself up with trembling arms, her breath shallow and labored.
"Who is it?" Mazen demanded, his voice thick with menace.
Felicián couldn't help but shudder. If he had spoken to one of his own in that tone, they'd have collapsed on the spot, paralyzed by fear. But the seer, despite her decrepit form, met Mazen's gaze with nothing but defiance.
"Just this morning, you sent your servants to search for his trail," she said, her voice steady, unmoved by the mage's power.
Mazen's eyebrows shot up. "That mixed-blood mongrel?" he scoffed, incredulous. "You think he will defeat me?"
The seer nodded, slow and deliberate. "By sunset, you will know all about him. But be careful—he will find out who you are long before you realize it. I warn you, Mazen, avoid him. Do not engage him in battle."
Mazen burst out laughing, his eerie, maniacal grin spreading across his face. "Felicián, we're leaving," he said, turning on his heel. "I've got some planning to do."
Felicián hesitated, glancing back at the old woman. "And her?" he asked, uncertain.
Mazen waved a dismissive hand. "She's more useful alive than dead."
Felicián was baffled. Mazen had just been told that someone was going to defeat him—someone who wasn't even on his radar—and instead of seething with rage, he seemed more amused than ever. His mood was so lifted that he even spared the old woman's life after her disrespect. Felicián couldn't fathom why.
As they ascended the stairs, Felicián finally gathered the courage to speak.
"My lord, may I ask you something?" he asked, his voice tentative.
"If I don't want to, I won't answer," Mazen stated, 'If you make me angry, I'll torture you. Ask with that in mind."
Felicián braced himself. Mazen's bluntness was both unnerving and comforting, as it signaled that his lord truly was in a good mood. This was a good time to ask.
"My lord, you seem... happy," Felicián said, choosing his words carefully. "Doesn't the seer's prophecy worry you?"
Mazen's eyes flicked over to him, a mocking gleam in them. He sighed, almost theatrically.
"Indeed, you have yet to see enough of the world to understand," he mused, then gave a more direct response. "Time is... a strange thing, Felicián. The future is malleable. Seers can only show us the path they believe most likely to unfold. In truth, there are countless futures, each as varied as the decisions we make in our lives. Every choice shifts the trajectory. The mere fact that we came here today has already altered my future. The future is never set in stone. Remember that."
Felicián pondered his master's words, feeling the weight of their meaning.
"I understand, my lord," he replied, his voice filled with newfound clarity.
Mazen's lips twisted into a small, knowing smile. "You're right. I am... a bit happy, I suppose. You can't imagine how dull life becomes when you're as powerful as I am. You no longer have to struggle for anything. You lose purpose. And the thrill of worthy opponents? It's hard to find anymore. I haven't had a real challenge in ages."
There was a quiet sense of disappointment in Mazen's tone, a touch of something that Felicián couldn't quite place. It was then that he realized: even for someone as powerful as Mazen, life could be painfully mundane. The enormity of his power left him with few worthy opponents, and with that, boredom. It made Felicián feel, just for a moment, that the vast distance between them had lessened. His master, it seemed, was not so different from him after all. He was still... human.
As the two mages exited the monastery, neither saw the smile that tugged at the corners of the old woman's lips, pale and colorless as they were.
"A prophecy," she whispered to the darkness, "is often not to prevent the future, but to ensure it comes to pass. And so it shall, Mazen."
(...)
As the seer had foretold, each follower trickled back, eager to report their findings. Felicián stood among them, quietly tucked away in the corner, now without a task to occupy him. Some of the others whispered behind his back, thinking he couldn't hear, or perhaps assuming he wouldn't. Naturally, their resentment simmered, fueled by their master's open favoritism toward him.
A hooded figure appeared beside him, her voice sharp with mockery.
"Tell me, rookie," she sneered, "how'd you manage to lick your way into Master's good graces?"
Felicián didn't even flinch. "I'm just getting credit for my work," he shrugged, his tone casual.
The mage's hand shot out, grabbing his robe, her eyes gleaming with venom from beneath her hood.
"For your work? Bullshit. I've been serving him for years!" she spat, her voice laced with disdain.
Felicián raised an eyebrow, the mocking grin not fading from his lips. "Try harder."
He was sure a curse would follow that remark, something twisted and cruel—but then Mazen strode into the great hall. His presence filled the room like a storm.
"Enough, Veronika," Mazen's voice was dry, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a threat of pain hanging in the air.
Veronika released her grip on Felicián immediately, a flicker of fear in her eyes before she quickly scurried toward their master.
Felicián pursed his lips, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Veronika liked to claim she was the most loyal of his servants. But the truth was clear to anyone paying attention—she wasn't loyal to him, not truly. No, she was hopelessly in love with Mazen.
Mazen, of course, refused to acknowledge it. She might have been dangerous, unpredictable, even tempting in her own deranged way, but her obsession with him was grotesque. The way she stalked him, hoping for a hint of his affection, was almost unbearable to watch.
But Mazen never acknowledged her. Instead, he pursed his lips, his usual response to her advances. Felicián thought about it, and for a moment, he wondered if his master found it as intolerable as he did. How much restraint did it take for him to not rid himself of her once and for all?
Mazen then glanced towards him, his lips curving upwards in a barely perceptible curve. The memory of that afternoon suddenly appeared in Felicián's mind. 'She's more useful alive than dead,' Mazen had said.
Mazen seemed to be exceptionally amused by the openness of the boy's mind, but Felicián was not bothered. He had no secrets from his master. Besides, the boy thought, no servant of his was really allowed to have any. He had a feeling that their lord could easily slip through even their best defenses without being noticed. The man was smiling now and Felicián was sure he was right.
The faint smile remained on Mazen's face as he settled into his seat, the atmosphere around him crackling with authority. The dark master had arrived.
"Report," Mazen whispered, his voice low but laced with a dangerous edge.
One of the followers immediately rushed to the podium, kneeling before him. The eagerness in his eyes suggested he hoped for a reward—perhaps the same recognition Felicián had received.
"My lord," the servant began, "I've learned that the mixed-blood is a direct descendant of the esteemed Rosenstein family, a member of the House of Roubál. Despite his tainted origins, he has influence with the hunters. In the battle against the Fifth King, he even summoned warriors from the noblest hunting families."
Mazen's gaze never wavered, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Go on, Raul."
The servant continued, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty, "It has also come to my attention that he is related to the Moon Queen Titania, and he has sought her aid in his war against the Fifth King."
Mazen raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised. "So, he has royal blood."
Raul nodded, but before he could elaborate, Mazen dismissed him with a flick of his hand. "You may go."
Raul, disappointment flashing across his features, retreated to the ranks of hooded figures.
Another mage stepped forward, kneeling with deliberate humility.
"My lord," he began, his voice measured, "I have further intelligence. The mixed-blood has been in contact with the Sorcerer Lord. My spy within his court confirms they have formed an alliance."
Mazen's brow furrowed, his interest piqued. "Did Livius ally with him?"
The mage hesitated, cautious but resolute. "The information is solid, my lord."
"Have you discovered why?" Mazen's tone was sharp now, suspicion creeping into his words.
The mage, Ábner, appeared to shift uneasily. "He helped the Sorcerer Lord acquire the regalia," he replied.
Mazen's gaze hardened as he drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne, processing the revelation. How had this mixed-blood gained such sway with the kings? He had already secured loose alliances with two out of four, one of them being Titania—famous for her temper. The kid was more capable than he seemed.
Mazen chuckled softly, his voice laced with derision. "Personal information?"
Ábner nodded, eager to share what he knew. "The mixed-blood was raised as a hunter. After his mother's death, he was thought to have perished. The Crosspherat sought him for experimentation."
Mazen's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you certain, Egbert?"
The mage, Egbert, trembled under his master's gaze, but nodded, his voice unwavering. "Yes, my lord."
Mazen leaned forward, his voice soft yet penetrating. "How old was he then?"
"Only twelve, my lord."
Mazen's disbelief echoed through the chamber. "Twelve? You mean to tell me that a twelve-year-old child deceived the Crosspherat?"
"Yes, my lord," Egbert responded, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mazen's expression darkened as he considered the implications. A child, so young, outwitting the Crosspherat? It spoke of a level of cunning and strength far beyond his years. "Tell me, why has he reappeared now?"
Egbert hesitated, then answered, "The six years after that are a mystery, my lord. It's rumored that the Fifth King kidnapped some of his friends, prompting him to declare war on him."
Mazen's gaze sharpened. "Some of his friends?"
Egbert nodded. "Yes, my lord. I believe several of them were either captured or gravely injured."
Mazen waved his hand dismissively, and the mage quickly retreated into the ranks.
"Is there anything of substance to report?" Mazen's voice was low, almost a growl. "Anything personal—skills, weaknesses, or strengths?"
The room fell silent, the followers exchanging nervous glances.
"I thought so," Mazen muttered to himself, considering the slow, painful methods of torture he could use on his subordinates. But before he could act on the thought, another figure crouched before him.
"Veronika," he sighed her name, the words heavy with disdain. "Speak, but make sure only something of value leaves your mouth."
The tension in the room thickened. Mazen was willing to tolerate their failures, but not for long. He would make an example of them soon if they couldn't provide useful information.
"We're not just talking about friends," Veronika began, her voice steady but intense. "We're talking about famiglia."
Mazen repeated the word, his voice cold. "Famiglia. Raised by hunters, yet he surrounds himself with monsters?"
Veronika's eyes glinted with a mixture of respect and knowledge. "From what I've gathered, he leads a unique famiglia, one that includes representatives from many different races."
Before Mazen could respond, another mage crouched beside Veronika.
"He has a half-brother," the mage said, his voice quiet but urgent. "The mixed-blood saved him from the dungeons of the Crosspherat. I visited the hospital where his half-brother is now in a coma. Medical records show brain damage, but my examination proves otherwise—the cause is poisoning."
Mazen's interest piqued further. "What kind of poison?"
The mage's eyes widened slightly as he replied, "An unknown toxin, my lord. It's incredibly potent—just a drop is enough to induce a slow, agonizing death. I believe it's produced by the body itself due to his vampiric nature."
Mazen's expression hardened. "He poisoned himself?"
"All evidence points to it, my lord," Veronika interjected, her voice firm now, the weight of her investigation clear.
Mazen's eyes gleamed with fascination. "An unparalleled poison, then. He's clearly trying to keep it hidden at all costs."
"And he infiltrated the Crosspherat to obtain it," Veronika added, her tone heavy with implication.
Mazen leaned back, considering the gravity of the information. "There's something else, my lord," Veronika continued. "I've tried tracing the mixed-blood's movements, but I've always been blocked."
Mazen's gaze flickered. "So there's a mage among them."
Veronika nodded. "Yes, my lord."
Mazen gave a slight nod in acknowledgment before turning back to the group. "I want precise details on his abilities. Veronika, you continue to monitor the hospital. Ábner, Raul, and Felicián—stay with me. The rest of you—leave."
The room emptied in an instant, and Mazen's gaze lingered on his remaining followers.
"You were expecting a reward," Mazen said, his voice cold and calculating. "And you will receive it—if you complete my next task."
He turned to the two taller mages, his gaze sharp. "Your mission will not be difficult. All you need to do is kill as many as possible. But ensure the evidence points to a vampire."
"Tomorrow, you and Veronika will infiltrate the hospital. Take the form of the half-blood," Mazen ordered.
The hooded mages bowed in unison, their movements swift and obedient, and left without a word. Felicián stood frozen, his thoughts racing. He had no doubt that his master was using his half-brother as a pawn in his game to further isolate the mixed-blood.
"You're beginning to understand my plan," Mazen's voice cut through the silence, making Felicián snap his attention back to him. "I'm not sure whether to praise you… or kill you for it."
Felicián's heart skipped a beat, the cold touch of fear creeping down his spine.
"But since you play a part in this, I'll choose praise for now," Mazen added, his words laced with an unsettling calm.
Despite the lack of any genuine praise, Felicián exhaled, the weight in his chest easing slightly.
What he didn't know was that Mazen had been testing his loyalty all day long. This was the final trial. The dark mage observed his reaction to the threat—his willingness to endure, to stay still under the pressure of such a powerful presence. Though Mazen wouldn't admit it, a flicker of surprise crossed his mind. Neither attack nor flight had crossed Felicián's thoughts, only fear. But who wouldn't be scared of a man as dangerous as Mazen?