To name something is to give it power.
A Mage's Name
I got out of bed the next day. I walked over to the wardrobe and grabbed the first two items of clothing I could get my hands on, but I hadn't started dressing yet. There was something in the wardrobe that bothered me. I wanted to open it and avoid it at the same time, as if afraid of what it was hiding there from me.
I stood in front of it for quite some time but finally opened the door. My eyes darted to the right corner, which was dark and empty. It was then I realized that I was not afraid of what might be waiting for me inside, but of something not being there. Something was missing — I just didn't know what exactly.
Then my thoughts took another hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. It was just as if the thoughts were flowing out of my fingers like water, I couldn't grasp them, no matter how much I wanted to. And the worst thing about it was that as time went on, it bothered me less and less.
I decided to get dressed. I pulled the shirt off, but before I could lay it on the back of the chair, the material slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. I looked at the scar on my forearm and smoothed it over in disbelief. Then a memory crept into my mind's eye.
"I've had enough," I whimpered to myself.
I was sitting in the library, letting the book fall out of my hand and hit the floor loudly. I'd already gone through all the hunter's notes on memory-manipulating magic, but I couldn't find a way to counter it. What am I supposed to do now? As I thought about it, fighting Mazen seemed more and more impossible. I sighed deeply.
So I went to see the Necromancer to see if he could help me. Once again he was expecting me, for he was waiting at the gate when I reached the cemetery.
"Hello, Shaytan," he said, a predatory grin on his lips.
I just mumbled something under my breath and entered the cemetery, trotting nervously up to the crypt. There I walked to the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs.
"So?" I asked the Necromancer, "How can I defeat Mazen?"
The Necromancer's grin widened and I felt a shiver run up my spine to the back of my neck.
"To the best of my recollection, Ridian Rosenstein was the only person who had ever defeated a memory-altering spell, but he could only have done it because he was a master of using them," he said.
"And how did he do it?" I asked, more excited than I wanted it to sound.
"He dug the dagger in his hand into his palm to get rid of the trance," he declared, "The pain stimulus is one of the strongest, so it was perfectly suited to the purpose."
"So you're saying that pain can break trance," I mused. "But I want him to believe that his plan has succeeded. Hm... tell me, can you attach a memory to a scar?"
The Necromancer seemed pleased, very pleased. "I think it's possible. I know several such spells."
I felt that the Necromancer was merely looking for a reason to probe my mind.
"What price should I pay you for that?" I asked suspiciously.
"It is my duty to keep the stream of Fate in its course," Gironde declared, almost proudly, as he placed his hand over his heart, "and your death would lead to an unimaginable flood, so we must avoid it at all costs."
I felt myself slowly frowning in pain. I didn't really trust him, yet what he said didn't feel like a deception. Besides, like him, I knew he was my only chance of survival.
"Can you do them now?", I asked.
He nodded.
"Okay," I said finally, hoping I wasn't about to make the worst decision of my life, "Then I want you to put this memory in my mind, next to my final plan. Hide only the most important things, Mazen would notice if there were too many gaps in my memory, and even more if none of my memories were about him. He may know that I have spoken to Lilinette about it and I would like you to keep my failed research results. Let him think he knows everything."
The Necromancer smiled wryly.
Gironde started by chanting incantations in an ancient language, his hands glowing with an eerie green light. As the spell progressed, the room seemed to darken, shadows creeping in from the corners, drawn to the pulsating magic. He then pulled out a dagger, its blade inscribed with runes that shimmered with an otherworldly energy.
"Hold still," he commanded, his voice layered with an echo as if multiple entities spoke through him.
I nodded, bracing myself.
Gironde pressed the tip of the dagger to my forearm. A searing pain shot through me as he sliced into the flesh, but I gritted my teeth, determined not to scream. His other hand hovered above the wound, fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air. Tendrils of green light flowed from his fingers into the open cut, and I felt a strange tugging sensation as if something was being pulled from deep within me.
"This will bind the memory to your soul," he said, his eyes gleaming with a mix of fascination and malice. "Your body heals too quickly, so we must tear into the very essence of who you are."
The pain intensified, not just physical but a deep, soul-wrenching agony. I felt the necromancer's magic burrowing into my very being, anchoring the memory to the wound.
Images flashed before my eyes — Lil's face, the Necromancer's smile, the intricate details of my plan. Gironde's voice grew louder, the chant more urgent, as he completed the spell.
I blew out the air in my lungs. The trance was completely broken. Just in time. As time passed, the magic wanted to suck in more and more of my memories. Though I kept thinking of Mazen as my brother, I was now aware of the deception. And the plan was ready in my head. I grinned—time to play on.
(...)
I assured the mage who had been assigned to be my babysitter that I was fine, but he looked at me with a rather skeptical expression. Of course, Mazen explained to him what kind of healing abilities I had, but he didn't seem convinced.
Nonetheless, he left the mage to watch me anyway, and I took it as a challenge. I spent the day playing a game of cat and mouse with his minion, carefully surveying the surroundings. Some of the walls had runes carved into them to reinforce their defenses. I memorized the exact locations of these runes so I could investigate them later.
After tiring out my watchful companion, I lounged lazily on Mazen's throne, crossing my legs and idly hanging them onto one of the armrests. I glanced up at the mage, making no effort to hide my self-satisfaction.
"Where is Mazen?" I inquired.
The mage showed no inclination to respond, but I repeated the question nonetheless. He stood silently, observing me. Even with his hood up, I could feel the intensity of his glare burning into me.
I sighed and rose to my feet, stepping directly in front of him. He glanced up just enough that I caught a glimpse of his face. Gently, almost as if handling fragile glass, I pulled his hood down to get a better look. My claws brushed against his skin. He didn't recoil or flinch, which pleased me. The defiant gleam in his eyes confirmed I had made the right impression.
"There's nothing special about you," I remarked. "Tell me, why does Mazen keep you around?"
His anger flashed, and he slapped my hand away. His lips tightened into a thin line, his mind clearly racing with curses.
"I wouldn't recommend it," I said with my customary wry smile. "Wise individuals recognize when the odds are stacked against them, Felicián."
His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. I couldn't help but let my smile widen.
"Felicián," I repeated, savoring the name. "Interesting name, but I'm not fond of it. How about Felis? Do you mind if I call you Felis?"
By now, his hands trembled with fury.
"How did you find out?" he hissed.
"A good informant never reveals their secrets," I lectured. "Now, Felis, you're going to tell me where Mazen is."
Felis's face flushed with frustration. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. I leaned in closer, enjoying the way his irritation flared.
Felis's eyes narrowed. "You think you're in control here?"
I let my smile widen. "I don't just think it—I know it. Now, you have a choice only because I have graciously given you one."
I tilted my head thoughtfully. "It's simple. I want to know where Mazen is. Give me that information, and maybe I'll be inclined to leave you in one piece."
Felis stubbornly stayed silent.
I sighed dramatically as if his resistance was a great inconvenience. "You're not being very cooperative, Felis."
(...)
With preparations for the final battle complete, I found myself left to wait in a state of uneasy contemplation.
Felis had divulged Mazen's whereabouts — he was in some kind of meeting — leaving me to dine alone. It felt like I was battling a split consciousness, torn between viewing the black mage as both brother and adversary. Even though the memory-altering spell had been shattered, reclaiming my true memories remained elusive. Thus, I was trapped in a frustrating limbo where conflicting identities clashed within me. This clearly showed Mazen's skills.
On this particularly grey and uneventful Sunday, the sheer emptiness in the air was almost tangible. I sat alone over a cold meal, sipping a beer that I didn't particularly enjoy.
My relationship with beer was as unpredictable as the tides—sometimes inviting, sometimes bitter, sometimes overwhelming. It was a constant companion in my solitude, a painful reminder of my lonely existence.
A romantic relationship was something I neither sought nor desired deeply, save for occasional encounters. (And there was also Luna.) Deep down, a fleeting wish for companionship would sometimes flicker, only to fade as quickly as it surfaced. Solitude was my sanctuary, where I felt safest. I was not immune to occasional bouts of vulnerability, though, when I allowed others to draw near—sometimes to regret, sometimes not.
I have friends. Not always the kind I would necessarily want, and not exactly the kind I need, but I have them. Of course, I know that I am far from being the friend they would want or need. But that's okay. In fact, if I absolutely had to define it, I'd say that's the essence of friendship. We are with people we could do better than, and perhaps we don't need them, yet we stay.
Alex, my steadfast confidant, shared a drink with me to soothe the pains or celebrate the victories of our tumultuous lives. His pálinka was always the finest, sourced from some undisclosed origin that he evaded discussing with a grin and a deflection.
Rolo, the sly thief, had skillfully ingrained himself into my life, claiming a spot in my apartment, earning my trust, and becoming part of my circle of friends. Due to his age, he exercised caution with alcohol—reflecting his prudent nature and his desire to keep his wits sharp. Nevertheless, out of gratitude or habit, he continued to prepare my morning cocoa just the way I liked it.
I remember a girl. A vampire unlike any other, perpetually sipping coffee. I once dared to taste from her cup, an act that earned me a glare sharp enough to humble any creature. Her stoicism was a reminder that even amidst friends, boundaries were not to be crossed lightly.
Yes, and then there's Alice. He loves tea and never refused me when I offered him a cup. He never drank alcohol, but maybe that's just because hunters can't really afford it. Except for Geri.
As for Geri, whisky was his solace in both joy and sorrow. Of course, it should be added that he's a terrible drinker.
Luna's soothing herbal concoctions lingered in my memory, their warmth and tranquility a comfort I longed for in that moment.
Yet amid these memories, there was a haunting absence—I couldn't recall the face of my true brother. The unsettling void gnawed at me silently, an unspoken ache I dared not admit but keenly felt.
As I mulled over the hazy memories and the bitter taste of my beer, the emptiness of the room seemed to grow heavier. The dim light from the chandelier flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the turmoil within me. Each sip of beer was a reluctant gesture, a feeble attempt to numb the gnawing sense of loss and confusion.
Mazen wearily ascended the purple-carpeted marble steps, his footsteps muffled yet distinctly resonant in the quiet of the mansion. The long, dark corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, illuminated only by the faint glow of distant chandeliers.
Few servants remained in the mansion after dusk; those who did were careful to avoid crossing the dark mage's path unless summoned. As night fell, the rest of Mazen's subjects had disappeared with the hope of escaping another day unscathed, knowing full well that Mazen was unlikely to tolerate their presence during his hours of rest. Thus, it was highly unusual for him to encounter an unexpected presence outside his room.
With a furrowed brow, Mazen stood staring at the door handle for a moment before he cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.
My eyes locked onto the figure of the dark mage immediately. His presence was unmistakable—his heartbeat, the subtle shift in the air, and the unmistakable scent of his aura betrayed him instantly.
He threw back his crimson hood, revealing his grey eyes that pierced through the dimly lit room. For a moment, his gaze lingered on mine, not with surprise or anger, but with a hint of puzzlement. Soon, however, that emotion vanished, replaced by a cold, empty stare. His grey eyes were like snow falling silently in the night— dangerously cold.
I had always possessed an innate ability to read people. Perhaps it was something I was born with or something I had honed over time. Regardless, my keen sense of understanding allowed me to anticipate others' moves with remarkable accuracy. Mazen, being a formidable opponent, was particularly predictable—often the weakness of those with great strength. I greeted him with a warm smile.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice carrying an edge of irritation that he tried to mask with casual indifference.
"I was waiting for you," I replied, casually descending from the windowsill where I had been perched. Mazen's gaze fell upon the beer in my hand, and a disapproving look crossed his face. However, he chose not to comment on it.
The two trays of food on the glass table had long since gone cold, but Mazen, with a wave of his hand, reheated them with practiced ease. He nodded in thanks, and I took my seat at the table, wishing him a polite bon appétit before starting my meal.
Mazen, despite his usual aloof demeanor, seemed slightly uncomfortable. As I had suspected, he had not shared his meal with anyone for quite some time.
"You don't have to stay up all night waiting for me," Mazen said, his voice a mix of gratitude and subtle reprimand.
"No, I don't," I sighed, "But I feel better knowing you're home safe. They said you were at some kind of meeting. Did everything go all right?"
He met my gaze with a steady, scrutinizing look, analyzing the sincerity in my eyes. Given my innocent facade, he didn't suspect any underlying motives.
"Of course," he replied with a weary sigh, "As usual. Though I'm surprised no one attempted to assassinate me tonight."
"They'd be fools to try," I grinned, "You're the strongest."
If I couldn't reach his heart with such a compliment, then I wouldn't be able to reach it at all. The corners of his lips twitched slightly, though I wasn't sure if it was a sign of amusement or irritation.
"After me, of course," I added quickly.
This time, a faint, genuine curve appeared on his lips. "Keep dreaming," he said, taking a sip of tea as if to mask the small smile.
I laughed softly. "Mazen," I began cautiously, "Can you tell me about the Shadow Circle?"
His eyes narrowed, a flash of suspicion crossing his face.
"I'm worried," I whispered, leaning in slightly, "Now that you're the prime candidate for the throne, you need to be extra cautious about them."
"You don't need to remind me," he growled, his irritation evident. I chose to stay silent, adopting the demeanor of someone who had acknowledged their fault.
After finishing my meal, I sipped my beer, finding its bitterness lessened by the warmth of the food. Mazen broke the silence.
"Why did you ask for beer if you don't like it?" he inquired, still somewhat irked by the mention of the Shadow Circle.
I took a deep breath, my voice tinged with a note of melancholy. "When I'm alone, I always crave it," I confessed, "Today, for some reason... I felt so lonely."
Mazen did not respond, his eyes betraying no sign of regret or guilt, nor sympathy. Yet, the sadness in his gaze revealed a deeper truth: my words had touched a nerve. Mazen, despite his formidable exterior, was indeed a figure profoundly affected by loneliness.
I said my goodbyes and headed toward my room. As I nestled between the pillows and blankets, a sly half-smile tugged at my lips. For now, I found a fleeting sense of satisfaction in the small victories and the truths I had uncovered.