Michael and Captain Garren stood in the royal courtyard, preparing to leave after another tense meeting with the war council. The air was thick with anticipation, the weight of their next moves heavy in the air. As they gathered their things, a mage approached them, her robes flowing like liquid magic. Her face, sharp and unyielding, matched her message.
"Michael, Captain Garren," she said, her tone purposeful, "you've been summoned by Strategist Arwin Falric."
Michael exchanged a glance with Garren. The name 'Arwin Falric' was known across the kingdom—a brilliant tactician, a strategist, and above all, a rare and highly respected space mage. Michael didn't trust many in positions of power, but he knew that Arwin was one whose intellect and abilities could not be ignored.
"We'll go," Michael said, his voice steady. "Lead the way."
The mage nodded and led them through the palace grounds toward the towering structure that was Arwin's residence. It was no ordinary building—an impossibly tall magic tower that stretched upward like an ancient tree, its spires weaving in and out of the fabric of space itself. The entire structure radiated a subtle aura, the kind that only the most skilled mages could achieve.
As they stepped inside, Michael could feel the magic at play. It wasn't like the raw elemental power he wielded or the controlled discipline of other mages. This was something different. Something vast. The air around them hummed with a unique frequency, as though they were standing at the intersection of different planes of existence. Michael's instincts flared as he tried to read the structure, the subtle fluctuations in the magic surrounding them.
Inside, the tower was a labyrinth of arcane rooms and hallways, filled with the scent of herbs, magical concoctions, and alchemical mixtures. The walls shimmered with enchanted symbols, and every room seemed to hold a different discipline: alchemy, botany, magical formations, and more. Mages of various levels were engaged in experiments, from summoning rituals to brewing potions that shimmered with the faint glow of another world. The place was alive with knowledge—a place where boundaries between worlds were bent, and the impossible became possible.
They finally arrived before a large door, more imposing than any they had encountered in the tower. The mage knocked, her hand precise. From the other side, a voice—calm, calculating—called out, "Enter."
Michael's heart skipped a beat. As the door swung open, the sheer scale of the room took his breath away. What he had expected to be a traditional study was, in fact, a vast expanse that seemed to stretch on forever. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves that reached all the way up to multiple levels of platforms. Ancient tomes and scrolls, many of them glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light, filled the shelves. Maps, some drawn in ink and others etched in light, depicted continents and realms far beyond the kingdom of Verdwryn. Mages and scholars moved between the rows of books and desks, their work a constant hum of activity.
Arwin sat in the heart of this space, his chair set atop a raised platform surrounded by intricate arcane symbols. He looked like a figure from another time, tall and thin, with hair silvered by age but eyes sharp and focused. In his hands, he held a delicate cup, the faint scent of tea rising from it as he sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving the entrance.
"Well, well, the boy is still alive," Arwin said, his voice calm but carrying an air of amusement. "I must admit, I had calculated your death. Seems my predictions were off." He set the cup down and leaned back, regarding them both with that penetrating gaze. "But enough of that. I can tell that we are alike, you and I. You understand that the goal is to win this war, and in war, the end justifies the means."
Michael's stomach tightened at the words. The end justifies the means. It sounded like a philosophy of ruthless efficiency, one he had seen and heard about in the world of war. He'd been a soldier, trained to make difficult choices, but this—this felt different. Arwin's words weren't just cold—they were calculating, devoid of humanity.
"I'm not sure I agree with that," Michael said, his voice steady despite the unease growing in his chest. He met Arwin's gaze without flinching. "There has to be more than just winning at all costs."
Arwin chuckled, the sound rich with years of experience. "Oh, but you will. You're already beginning to understand the nature of war. Sacrifices must be made. People will die, plans will fail, and in the end, only the strong survive." His smile was almost predatory. "I'm glad to see that you've matured, boy. That makes things simpler."
Michael remained silent, his mind already racing. He knew that Arwin was not a man who wasted time with pleasantries. If he'd summoned them here, it was for something important.
"Enough of that," Arwin continued, waving his hand dismissively as though brushing away trivialities. "I called you here to discuss a different matter—one that involves Varrik. Tell me your thoughts on how we should handle him."
The mention of Varrik brought Michael's mind back to the task at hand. He considered Arwin's words carefully before speaking. "I think it's too soon to kill Varrik. Killing him would be a waste of a valuable asset. We know he's betrayed the kingdom, but if we expose that too early, it will create unnecessary chaos. Instead, we use him. Keep him in the dark about what we know. Let him believe we're still unaware of his treason. When the time comes, we strike, using everything we've learned to trap the Zeranthians. Varrik's knowledge will be invaluable in that regard."
Arwin's lips curled into a smile, as if he had been waiting for that very answer. "You think like a strategist, boy. I like that. But there's one issue," he said, his voice lowering, filled with a sudden tension. "Karth survived. What makes you think he won't reveal your knowledge of Varrik's betrayal to his master, Veylor Iskan?"
Michael paused. This was the question that had been gnawing at him as well. Karth's survival presented a significant complication. He was a wild card, and if he knew what Michael was planning, it could expose everything.
"That's easy," Michael replied, his voice firm. "Even if Veylor knows, we'll have to kill Michael, we have to make people believe that I died. That will ignite the people—make them believe we've been struck down. And when that happens, we'll have the perfect opportunity to set a trap for the Zeranthians. They won't see it coming."
Arwin let out a deep, thunderous laugh, one that resonated through the vast room. "Hahaha! Boy, I really like you. You're just like me. Willing to sacrifice everything for victory."
Michael's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. We are not the same, he thought bitterly, his heart cold at the realization of how far Arwin was willing to go. But outwardly, he remained silent. The last thing he wanted was to reveal his true thoughts to the strategist.
Arwin straightened up, his expression turning more serious. "I'll take your plan to the King. You've given me much to think about. In the meantime, you'll stay here in my library. There is much you can learn from the resources here. Captain Garren will return to war camp."
Michael nodded. "Tell them I'm fine, and not to worry about me," he said quietly, before looking over at Garren, who gave him a curt nod.
As Garren left, Michael stood still in the vast expanse of Arwin's library. The walls seemed to close in around him, filled with the weight of centuries of knowledge. But the more he looked, the more it became clear: this place was a crossroads between worlds. Between the living and the dead. Between the choices they made and the consequences of those choices.
Arwin might be a rare and brilliant space mage, but Michael could sense the dangerous arrogance beneath the man's calm exterior. Arwin controlled space itself, bending reality to his will—but Michael would not let himself be controlled. Not by anyone.
As he turned his gaze back to the shelves, his mind whirred with plans, tactics, and the ever-present sense that the war was drawing closer. The next move was his. And he would make sure it was a step toward victory—on his terms.