Not a day goes by without some fresh-faced fool—usually young, sometimes not—thinking they want to follow in my footsteps. Imagine that: aspiring to become an Inquisitor of the Inquisition. Worse, a Mesmer. Aspiring to this life, as if wielding chaos mana and bending truth with illusions is some grand, noble calling. They imagine themselves as elegant arbiters of justice, wrapping their enemies in spectral chains and extracting confessions with a wave of their hand. It's almost cute. Almost.
Once, the very idea of someone choosing this path would've been a joke. But now? Inquisitors are revered. The Mesmer class? Practically legends. Respectable institution churns out pamphlets with titles like Ethical interrogations: An Examination or The Case of the Moonlit Assassin. The world, clearly, has lost its mind.
Ethical interrogation? That one always makes me laugh. I've seen men driven mad by illusions so convincing they bit all their toes off. Where's the ethics in that?
And yet they come. To the Obsidian Spire. To my lectures. Eyes wide, dreams bigger than their heads, thinking they really want this life. A future spent rooting through filth and lies for the truth, while dodging knives in the dark. A future as a monster pretending to protect the world from other monsters. It does come with its perks though, Authority and power second to the king. A title.
Despite their rigorous education, they still write to me, seeking stories of my so-called 'adventures.' They want to know how I escaped the Crimson Veil or dismantled the Ashen Prophets. Or, how I supposedly prevented a war with the Elarian Dominion. They love that one—as if it were some grand scheme, rather than a string of unfortunate blunders.
But the question that never fails to amuse me—the one that makes me want to throttle them through the parchment—is always about chaos magic. How do you control it? they ask. What's the secret?
The secret? You don't control chaos. You endure it. You shape it into something useful for as long as it lets you, and pray it doesn't unravel your mind in the process. Chaos isn't a tool. It's a wild beast, gnawing at the edges of your sanity, daring you to slip. And when you do? It consumes you. Simple as that.
When the Writers Guild suggested I pen a series of memoirs for my students, I said yes. Not because I enjoy recounting my life, mind you, but because it spares me from answering those damned letters. Besides, it's good business. The students buy the books. The Empire pays for the lectures. Everyone walks away happy, except the people in the cells, but no one asks their opinion.
So, dear reader, brace yourself. I will take you through icy wastelands, plague-ridden villages, ghoul-infested swamps, and royal parties rife with espionage. Maybe, if you're perceptive enough, you'll discover the secret you so desperately seek. By the end, you might wish you'd chosen a more peaceful profession—dungeon adventuring, perhaps, or grave-robbing. At least those trades let you sleep at night.
Let me be clear: if you think you can ace this course with a few essays and some memorized test answers, you're charmingly naive. No, it all begins with a certain... disposition. The kind that doesn't flinch at the sight of blood. The kind that can stare into the abyss without gibbering like a lunatic.
First, you'll have to survive the trials at the Obsidian Spire. If its labyrinthine halls don't break you, the training might. You'll learn the fine art of interrogation—where persuasion and torture are often indistinguishable—and study the arcane, because only a fool hunts heretics without knowing their tricks.
More than that, you'll need a degree of moral flexibility. The greater good often requires locking away your conscience—preferably in a deep, dark box.
And if you survive all that? Perhaps you'll earn the right to wear the golden eye. Though I wouldn't hold my breath. Most of you will have dropped out by then, weeping in some dark corner. This isn't a life for the faint-hearted—or the sane.
So, for those still desperate for my wisdom, a final warning: be careful what you wish for. The answers you seek might be far more horrifying than you can imagine.