Episode 7: Centrellus, Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Passages and Power (Raisa's Story, Part 2)

One

Raisa returned to what she still called home, though her heart longed for something more. The tiny village of Selvara, nestled in the shadow of Vennug's forested hills, had been her sanctuary for so long. It was a quiet place of familiar faces, the rhythm of its days marked by the tinkling of the river and the soft rustle of the trees.

Raisa was able to find work as a seamstress and was able to save up enough gold to rent a loft in a barn, owned by an old friend of her late parents. It was small, but for now, it was her home.

Raisa couldn't shake the feeling that Selvara had grown too small for her. The stories Hirum had shared gave her something to strive for. A vast world, full of possibilities, occupied her thoughts as her needle slipped through fabric, the repetitive motion soothing. A broader horizon was calling. Leaving Selvara seemed inevitable, though leaving all of Vennug wasn't yet part of her plans. She wasn't ready to go that far—at least, not yet.

Then the fair came, bringing a rush of life and color into the village.

Selvara's Spring Festival was a tradition, but this year it felt livelier than ever. Vibrant banners swayed above bustling stalls, while scents of roasting meats, spiced cider, and sweet honey tarts filled the air. Villagers mingled with visitors from across Vennug, their excitement contagious. For Raisa, it was impossible to resist.

She wound through the throng, taking in every sight, sound, and smell. At a food stall, she tried a flaky pie stuffed with savory greens. At another, she admired hand-carved wooden animals while chatting briefly with the cheerful artisan who made them. The festival's lively music lured her toward the main square, where a troupe of dancers twirled and leapt in perfect synchronization. For a moment, Raisa felt weightless, swept into the joy of the crowd.

But the moment shattered with a scream.

A young boy had wriggled away from his mother and climbed onto a high platform strung with garlands of flowers. Raisa's breath caught as she saw the flimsy railing splinter, leaving the child swaying perilously on the edge. The mother's cries cut through the chaos, and the crowd froze in horror.

Raisa couldn't think—she could only act. Her hand lifted instinctively, her magic pulsing to life. She felt its energy reach out, a force unseen but definitely there, steadying the boy and pulling him back to safety. He toppled onto the platform, unharmed, as cheers erupted around her.

Relief washed over Raisa, but it lasted only a second before she heard the voice.

"Well done," came the man's voice, smooth and commanding.

Raisa turned sharply to see a man emerging from the crowd. His attire—a rich cloak pinned with a golden brooch—was a stark contrast to the villagers' simple clothes. His blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, locked onto hers. He was unmistakably of noble blood.

"I believe you are called Raisa?" The man's smile was charming, but something about it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Who's asking?" she replied, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

The man inclined his head slightly. "Prince Edgar Xianne, of Vennug."

Raisa's heart pounded. The Prince. What was he doing here?

"I've heard of you," Edgar said. "Your name reached me some time ago, along with whispers of your... unique abilities. And what I've just seen only confirms the truth."

Raisa's pulse raced. She had been so careful, so cautious. Yet, somehow, she had drawn his attention.

"You must be mistaken," she said quickly, her voice clipped.

Edgar's smile didn't waver. "Come now, Raisa. You've shown what you can do. And I believe you can do so much more." He leaned in slightly, his tone softening as if sharing a secret. "I'm offering you a chance—a position at my side as Royal Consultant. The palace could use someone with your talents. You'd live in the Palace, in a beautiful suite customized to your liking. You'd get to travel all of Vennug. You'd be well compensated and would want for absolutely nothing."

Her stomach flipped. The offer was tempting. The thought of leaving Selvara, starting fresh in a grand palace, filled her with excitement. Yet there was something in Prince Edgar's eyes, an edge that kept her guard up.

"I don't... I don't know," she stammered, her emotions battling within her. Was this the opportunity she'd been waiting for—or a trap?

"I'm departing tomorrow afternoon. I will find you before I leave. You can give me your answer then. Sleep on it, Raisa." Edgar continued to smile, staring directly into her hazel eyes. He would not take no for an answer.

Unbeknownst to Raisa, Edgar's men had orchestrated the entire spectacle. The boy and his mother had been paid handsomely to play their parts, while the platform had been sabotaged to ensure Raisa's magic would be forced into action. Edgar was not a man who left things to luck—his plans were meticulous, his ambition boundless.

As Edgar walked away, fading into the crowd, Raisa stood rooted in place. The Prince had found her. And though she didn't know how, she suspected this encounter had not been left to chance.

Two

Raisa, her heart still fluttering with a mix of apprehension and a dangerous thrill, accepted Prince Edgar's offer. The transition from the quiet, guilt-soaked solitude of her village to the orchestrated chaos of the royal palace was less a journey and more a violent yank into a brighter, louder world. One day she was mending torn hems in a dusty loft; the next, silent attendants were pinning silks against her skin in a sun-drenched chamber three times the size of her old home.

The Xianne Palace was a living organism of polished marble and whispered secrets. Servants moved with a hushed efficiency that felt more like fear than duty. Raisa, whose life had been defined by isolation, found herself energized by the constant hum of presence. She decided, with a fierceness that surprised her, to not just endure it, but to conquer it.

She embraced the role like a suit of armor. The hesitant, shadowed girl was locked away. In her place strode a confident, sharp-eyed young woman who explored the palace’s endless corridors—not with awe, but with a strategist’s curiosity. 

She learned the weight of the silver cutlery, the way light fell through the stained glass in the solarium, the names of the under-cooks and the head gardener. It was all data. It was control.

It was in the palace library, a cavernous hall smelling of old parchment and lemon oil, that she found a different kind of asset: Worlie.

The young scribe was tucked into a carrel, a mountain of ledgers around her, scribbling with furious concentration. Raisa approached, her footsteps silent on the thick rug.

"Finding anything good in all that dust?" Raisa asked, her tone light.

Worlie jumped, a blot of ink scattering from her quill. She looked up, annoyance shifting to wary curiosity, then to a genuine, quick smile. "Mostly just finding numbers that don’t add up, which is its own kind of drama. You’re the new consultant. The one who… fixes things."

"Raisa," she said, settling onto a carved wooden bench nearby. "And I try. Seems you have the harder job—making sense of the chaos."

"Worlie. And chaos is my specialty." She set her quill down, rubbing a smudge of ink from her cheek. "So, how are you finding life among the glittering set? Aside from the obvious improvements to the wardrobe." She gestured appreciatively at Raisa’s embroidered day dress.

"It’s… an adjustment," Raisa admitted, deciding on a measured honesty. "Edgar has been very clear about what he expects."

Worlie’s eyebrows shot up. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a thread of sound. "You just called him Edgar."

"That’s his name, isn’t it?"

"Not to anyone with a shred of self-preservation," Worlie whispered, her eyes darting to the library entrance. "I’ve worked here since I was a girl. The only person who ever called him ‘Edgar’ to his face and didn't live to regret it was King Ivan. A stable hand did it once, drunk on festival wine. He wasn’t stable hand by morning. He was cleaning latrines in the lower barracks."

A cold trickle, separate from the library’s chill, went down Raisa’s spine. "He told me to call him that," she said, keeping her voice even. "Said I needed to get in the habit. That we might have to do some… undercover work in the future. That I should consider myself a confidante."

Worlie let out a soft, humorless puff of air. "Of course he did. That's a new one, though. The Prince has a way of making you feel chosen. Special. Like you’re the only one who sees the real him, or shares his secret burdens." She fixed Raisa with a look that was both pitying and sharp. "He’s a master of charm. He can make you feel like Solarus rises just to hear your opinion, but it’s a mirror he’s holding up. It’s all reflection. No depth."

She told stories then, not in a gossip’s glee, but with the grim precision of a historian documenting a plague. The courtier whose family business mysteriously flourished after she caught the Prince’s eye, and just as mysteriously collapsed after she declined his further attentions. The promising young officer given a doomed command to prove his loyalty, his corpse becoming a lesson in ambition.

"He’s not a monster in the stories," Worlie clarified, tracing a finger along the grain of the wood. "He’s something more insidious. He’s complicated. He makes you complicit."

Raisa listened, the luxurious fabric of her dress suddenly feeling like a costume. She had seen his charm, yes. But she had also felt the iron grip beneath the velvet glove when he’d invited her to the palace. She had mistaken its efficiency for decisiveness.

"He offered me a purpose," Raisa said, more to herself than to Worlie. "A way to use this… thing inside me for something other than regret."

Worlie’s gaze was unwavering. "He’ll use it to pave his road to whatever he really wants. And when the road is built, he won’t need the paver anymore. Just be careful, Raisa. His friendship is a loan with a vicious interest rate."

Raisa stood, the movement stiff. The initial excitement of her new life had curdled into a cold, clarifying focus. "Thank you, Worlie. Truly."

"Anytime." Worlie gave her a small, sad smile. "And for what it’s worth? The library is always here. The stories in the books are safer than the ones walking the halls."

Raisa left the library, her mind filled with Worlie's warnings. She had embraced her new life with open arms, eager to shed the shadows of her past. But she knew now that she couldn't afford to be naive. She had to be cautious, to be vigilant. Edgar's charm was a weapon, and she couldn't let herself be seduced by his promises.

Three

Life as the Royal Consultant was a delicate dance for Raisa. The palace sparkled with opulence, its marble halls and gilded ceilings offering a stark contrast to the modest simplicity of her village. Yet beneath the grandeur lay an uneasy undercurrent, and Raisa quickly learned that Edgar was at its heart.

On the surface, Edgar seemed charming—his words polished, his demeanor warm. "Your presence in the palace has already made a difference, Raisa," he said one morning as they passed through the gardens. His tone carried a practiced sincerity. "I can't tell you how much I value your insights."

Raisa smiled politely, masking the unease his words stirred. "I'm simply doing my duty, Your Highness."

But she had seen glimpses of the darker side of Edgar—the calculation behind his gestures, the way his compliments seemed to serve him more than they honored the recipient. It was Worlie's warnings, combined with Raisa's growing intuition, that allowed her to peer beyond his surface.

One evening, Raisa attended a banquet in the great hall. The room buzzed with laughter and conversation as Edgar held court, charming his guests with effortless grace. She noticed his attention linger on a young noblewoman seated beside him, her cheeks flushed as he whispered something that made her giggle.

Later that night, the atmosphere changed. As Raisa made her way back to her chambers, she passed a side corridor where hushed voices carried through the still air. She paused, stepping into the shadows as she spotted a young servant girl slipping out of Edgar's quarters. Her hair was slightly mussed, her cheeks stained red, and her expression was a mixture of shame and defiance. Raisa's chest tightened—what had transpired was clear enough, though unspoken.

Edgar's behavior wasn't limited to private indiscretions. Raisa observed him in the throne room, where his charm turned cold when speaking to those who no longer served his purpose. "Do you think excuses will suffice?" he snapped at an elderly steward. The man, visibly shaken, mumbled an apology before retreating hastily. Moments later, Edgar turned to Raisa with a radiant smile. "Now, where were we? Ah, your idea for the trade agreement. Brilliant as always."

Raisa responded carefully. "Thank you, Your Highness. I hope it will prove effective." She hated the way Edgar shifted masks so seamlessly, his charm a weapon as sharp as any blade.

Raisa's position in the palace offered her moments of influence, but she knew she was walking a tightrope. Edgar's subtle advances grew more pronounced. "Perhaps we should discuss this over a private dinner," he suggested during one meeting. "The palace can be so distracting during the day." Raisa smiled and deftly redirected the conversation, keeping her boundaries intact without provoking him. Her instincts told her Edgar was not just manipulative—he was dangerous. She began gathering small details, observing his patterns, searching for ways to protect those around her from his influence.

When Edgar tasked her with retrieving a rare artifact from a magical chamber, she approached the challenge with care. The barrier protecting the chamber was formidable, its intricate spells designed to thwart any but the most skilled sorcerers. Raisa studied it, her fingers tracing the threads of power woven into its structure.

"I trust your abilities will suffice," Edgar said, watching her with an expectant gaze. His voice carried the faintest edge of command.

Raisa worked methodically, creating a subtle opening in the barrier that allowed her to retrieve the artifact while disguising the extent of her magic. "The barrier must have weakened over time," she explained lightly, presenting the artifact to Edgar. He praised her ingenuity, his pleasure evident. Yet Raisa felt no pride—only the weight of her careful deception.

Later that evening, Raisa sat on the balcony of her suite, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The palace, with its sprawling grandeur, was a world away from the modest village of Selvara she had once called home. Her suite was more lavish than she could have imagined—soft rugs in deep jewel tones, elegant furnishings adorned with intricate carvings, and a bed draped in silk that felt like sleeping on clouds. But the balcony was her favorite place, her sanctuary. It overlooked the palace gardens, a labyrinth of flowering paths that sparkled under the moonlight. From here, she could see the faint glow of lights from the nearby villages scattered across the hills.

Raisa leaned against the stone railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She thought of the villagers she'd met, their stories and warmth lingering in her mind like cherished memories. During her outings, they treated her with respect—not for her title, but for the genuine curiosity and kindness she offered them. She had come to love these visits, the chance to connect with people who reminded her of simpler times.

Her thoughts turned inward. Despite the grandeur of her surroundings, the truth gnawed at her: she didn't trust Edgar. His charisma was a veneer, hiding something much darker. The way he manipulated people with a practiced smile and an empty promise made her wary. Working under his watchful eye was like walking through a field of thorns. Every step had to be calculated, every word weighed carefully.

Raisa sighed, her fingers tracing the cool stone of the railing. Why can't it be simpler? she thought. Her position as Royal Consultant had granted her privileges she never dreamed possible—the respect she commanded, the people she helped, the sense of purpose her role provided. And yet, that same role tethered her to Edgar, whose influence was impossible to escape.

Her love for the palace itself conflicted with the stress of her work environment. She loved the sheer beauty of her suite, loved standing on her balcony at dusk as the colors of the sky melted into shadow. She loved the camaraderie she'd found with many of the palace staff and the villagers she'd befriended on her visits. But the ever-present tension, the knowledge that Edgar's intentions were never pure, made her position feel like a well-engineered trap.

A distant laugh floated up from the gardens below, followed by the soft hum of music drifting on the breeze. Raisa closed her eyes, letting the sound soothe her for a moment. She thought of Worlie's warnings and the small details she had begun piecing together—the servant girl slipping from Edgar's quarters, his mask slipping when he thought no one was watching.

Her grip tightened on the railing. She couldn't live like this forever. Something had to give eventually. But for tonight, she allowed herself a moment of peace. The balcony, the starlit sky, the distant glow of the villages—all were reminders of the beauty in the world, even amidst the shadows.

Four

The initial wariness Raisa had felt in the palace began to dissipate as she settled into her role and formed connections with those around her. Worlie, in particular, became a beacon of warmth and companionship in the often-formal and sometimes isolating environment of the royal court.

Raisa found herself drawn to Worlie's sharp wit and infectious laughter. Worlie, in turn, seemed to appreciate Raisa's genuine curiosity and her eagerness to learn about the world beyond her own experiences. They spent hours together, sharing stories, dreams, and the occasional bit of palace gossip.

One afternoon, Raisa found Worlie in the palace gardens, seated beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree, a stack of scrolls beside her. Raisa approached with a smile, settling down beside her.

"What are you working on?" Raisa asked, her voice light and friendly.

Worlie grinned, holding up a scroll. "Just some royal decrees," she said. "Exciting stuff, really."

Raisa chuckled. "Sounds thrilling. Anything interesting happening in the kingdom?"

Worlie flashed a sly smile. "Oh, you know, the usual. A minor dispute over trade routes, a noble complaining about the quality of the wine at the last banquet..."

She paused, her expression becoming more serious. "But there's also been some talk about you, Raisa."

Raisa's smile faltered slightly. "Talk?"

Worlie nodded. "Whispers, mostly. Some people are... curious about your sudden appearance, your position, your... abilities."

Raisa sighed. "I figured as much."

"Don't let it bother you," Worlie said, her voice reassuring. "People always talk. As long as you have the prince's favor, you'll be fine."

"I don't care about the prince's favor," Raisa said, her voice firm. "I just want to do my job, to help the kingdom."

Worlie smiled. "I know you do. You're not like the others here. You're genuine."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves.

"Tell me about your family," Raisa said, breaking the silence. "You never talk about them."

Worlie's smile faded, and a shadow crossed her face. "It's... a long story," she said, her voice hesitant.

"I have time," Raisa said, her voice gentle.

Worlie hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. She told Raisa about her family, about her parents, about her dreams of becoming a scholar. She spoke of the hardships she had faced, the challenges she had overcome.

Raisa listened intently, her heart going out to Worlie. She saw a strength and resilience in her friend, a quiet determination that she admired.

"You're amazing, Worlie," Raisa said, her voice filled with sincerity. "You've been through so much, but you're still here, still smiling, still working hard."

Worlie smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you, dear," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "That means a lot."

She reached out and took Raisa's hand, their fingers intertwining. In that moment, a bond of friendship was solidified, a connection that went beyond the superficiality of the palace walls.

"And what about you?" Worlie asked, her voice curious. "You never talk about your past either."

Raisa hesitated, her gaze drifting to the distant horizon. "It's... complicated," she replied vaguely.

"I have time," Worlie said, mirroring Raisa's earlier words.

Raisa took a deep breath and began to tell Worlie about her life in Vennug, about her parents, about the fire, about Hirum, and about her journey to the Palace. She shared her guilt, her pain, her hopes, and her dreams.

Worlie listened without judgment, her eyes filled with compassion. She didn't offer easy answers. She simply offered her presence, her understanding, and her unwavering support.

By the time Raisa finished her story, Solarus was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the gardens. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the air filled with a sense of peace and understanding.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Worlie said, her voice soft. "I feel like I understand you so much better now."

"Thank you for listening," Raisa said, her voice filled with gratitude. "I've never told anyone about... everything."

Worlie squeezed her hand. "You can always tell me anything," she said. "I'm your friend, Raisa. And I'll always be here for you."

Raisa smiled, her heart filled with a warmth and comfort she had rarely felt before. In Worlie, she had found a true friend, a confidante, a kindred spirit. And in the often-treacherous world of the royal court, that was a treasure beyond measure.

Five

Edgar had requested a specific scroll, a treatise on ancient defense strategies, and tasked Raisa with retrieving it from his personal chambers. He'd been vague about its location, dismissively stating it was "somewhere on the shelves." Raisa, used to his cryptic nature, chalked it up to another of his eccentricities. But as the hours slipped by in her search, unease crept in.

His chambers exuded wealth and power. Mahogany shelves lined the walls, groaning under the weight of ancient tomes and scrolls. The room was filled with rare artifacts: a marble bust of an unidentifiable king, trinkets from foreign lands, and a gleaming set of ceremonial daggers that seemed to pulse with menace under the flickering candlelight. As Raisa's eyes swept the space, she couldn't ignore the feeling that every object had been curated not for utility, but for intimidation.

Her fingers traced the spines of countless volumes, her brow furrowing as she combed through the meticulously ordered shelves. She checked again and again, sure she must have missed something. As frustration mounted, a thought whispered in her mind. Is this some sort of test? Edgar was prone to manipulative games, and this certainly felt like one.

Just as she considered abandoning the search, something caught her attention—a tapestry in the corner, its edges slightly misaligned with the wall behind it. Her heart quickened as she approached. Pulling the heavy fabric aside, she revealed a faint seam in the stone, an outline that could only mean one thing: a hidden door.

A chill ran down her spine. Why had Edgar never mentioned this? And why did it feel like she wasn't meant to find it? Her curiosity warred with caution, but the decision was made in an instant. Pressing her palm to the lock, she whispered a faint spell. Magic tingled at her fingertips, flowing into the mechanism until she heard the quiet click of success. The door creaked open.

The passage beyond was a throat of cold stone. The air didn't just smell of mildew; it tasted of it—a damp, organic decay that coated her tongue. Raisa summoned a small, desperate flame in her palm. Its light didn't push the darkness back; it fought it, revealing a narrow, spiraling stairwell that seemed to swallow itself downward. Each step she took was a betrayal, the groan of ancient wood a scream in the suffocating silence.

The stairs led into a chamber, and Raisa's breath caught in her throat.

She had stumbled upon a hidden library. Dusty shelves towered in the flickering light, crammed with books whose spines were cracked like old bones. She took a step, her boot sticking slightly to the floor.

Her flame danced over a section that made her magic sputter in protest. The books here were bound in what looked like cured, tattooed skin, their titles etched in languages that moved when you didn't look directly at them. Insignias swam into view: a serpent swallowing its own tail—not in a circle, but in an endless, agonized knot; a single eye weeping thick, black tears; a skeletal hand not clutching a dagger, but slowly, meticulously skinning a living finger. One volume was bound in a leather so profoundly black it seemed to be a hole in reality, swallowing the light from her flame and giving back nothing.

A wave of nausea, hot and sour, rose in her throat. She stumbled away, her light sweeping to another shelf.

And she saw.

Not just illustrations. Records. Meticulously rendered in ink and what looked like dried, brownish pigment. Depictions of conquest so brutal they bypassed arousal and went straight to mutilation. Bodies, human and other, arranged not in passion but in grotesque tableaus of submission and pain. One image showed a figure overseeing a scene where… parts were being removed from a still-living subject with surgical, celebratory precision. Another series depicted the gradual, artistic deformation of a person into an object—a chair, a candelabra—their face forever frozen in a silent scream in the final panel.

They weren't fantasies. They were blueprints. A catalog of potential cruelties.

She slammed the book shut, the thwack echoing like a gunshot in the tomb-like space. She froze, ears straining. Had the sound traveled up the stairwell? The silence that rushed back in was worse, a listening silence.

Forcing her legs to move, she turned to a shelf against the far wall. Warfare. Maps, diagrams, treatises on siegecraft and logistics, all arranged with a librarian's cold efficiency. Her eyes found the section labeled Torsand. Not just maps. Family lineages of their generals. Drainage plans for Ondarat's lower districts. Diagrams of the Crystal Cascades' structural weaknesses. Dietary habits of the royal guard. It was an obsession, dissected and pinned like a specimen.

The dread in her chest crystallized into a hard, cold stone. This wasn't simple ambition. It was obsession.

Her skin prickled. The room felt staged. A trap? Her flame guttered as a soft creak sounded directly behind her. She spun, heart hammering against her ribs, the light throwing her own monstrous shadow against the books.

Nothing. Just the settling groan of the castle.

But the feeling of being watched didn't leave. It seeped from the walls.

Her gaze snagged on a simple leather-bound journal tucked into a shadowed corner. Not flaunted. Hidden. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. The leather was cool, almost oily. She opened it.

Edgar's handwriting slashed across the page, sharp and arrogant. Not just plans. Calculations. Estimates of resistance, casualty projections deemed "acceptable," timetables, lists of assets (Hannah's name was there, with a question mark beside it). A cold, logistical dissection of conquest and subjugation.

She couldn't read more. Not here, in this horrible room that felt more and more like a living thing waiting to digest her. She wanted to shove the journal into her satchel, but the risk was suicidal. It was too deliberate, too obvious a theft. Another time, she promised herself. If there is another time.

The journey back up the spiral stair felt like climbing out of a grave. Every sound she made was an announcement. She imagined eyes opening in the dark spines of the books, watching her retreat.

At the top, she extinguished her flame with a thought that felt like a sob of relief. She relocked the hidden door with a flick of her wrist, the magic feeling tainted now. She smoothed the tapestry back into place, its pastoral scene of a hunting party a sick joke.

Only when she was back in Edgar's sunlit sitting room did she allow herself to breathe. The air, once stuffy, now felt clean and thin.

She left his chambers, her satchel pressed tight to her side as if it contained a live bomb. Her mind didn't race; it burned. The images from those books were seared onto the backs of her eyelids. The clinical lists in the journal. This wasn't a man with dark desires. It was a man whose desires were the darkness, meticulously organized and waiting to be enacted.

Six

The twin moons hung high in the night sky, pale light spilling over the palace grounds and casting long, skeletal shadows on the cobblestone paths below. Within a secluded chamber, far from the prying eyes of the court, Edgar Xianne sat at the head of a heavy oak table. Three men flanked him, their faces partially illuminated by the flickering light of a single brass candelabra. The room smelled of aged wine and smoke, the air thick with tension.

Edgar's fingers tapped against the table, the sound sharp and deliberate. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice low yet commanding, "the time has come to discuss our plans for Torsand."

The portly nobleman to his left dabbed his damp forehead with a handkerchief. His finely embroidered doublet strained against his bulk as he shifted nervously in his chair. "Your Highness," he began, his voice trembling, "I must admit, I still have reservations. Torsand is a formidable realm. Their army dwarfs ours in strength, and their defenses—"

"—are only as good as their leadership," Edgar interjected, his tone cutting through the man's hesitation like a blade. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of impatience and ambition. "Superior for now, perhaps. But with the right strategy and resources, we can conquer them. I don't intend to simply challenge Torsand, Lord Marvius. I intend to bring them to their knees."

At this, the second man—grizzled and battle-worn, with a jagged scar running down his cheek—gave a slow, approving nod. "The rewards would indeed be immense, Your Highness," he said, his voice gravelly from years of shouting commands on the battlefield. "Torsand is rich in magical resources. Their vaults alone could fund our kingdom for generations, not to mention the strategic advantage their lands would give us."

Edgar smiled thinly. "Precisely. My father... that timid old fool... is too blind to see the opportunities before us. He clings to outdated peace treaties, clutches at diplomacy like it's a life raft in a storm. But I," he leaned forward, his eyes darkening, "I will not be constrained by his weakness."

He slammed his fist onto the table, causing the candelabra to shudder. The sudden motion drew a sharp intake of breath from Marvius. "When I am king," Edgar growled, his voice simmering with intensity, "Torsand will be ours. And anyone who dares to oppose us will be crushed beneath our heel."

Marvius hesitated, wringing his hands. "B-but Your Highness, surely the King, your father—"

"Forget the old man!" Edgar snapped, his face twisting with unrestrained frustration. "His time is over. I am the future of this kingdom, and I'll be damned if I let him stand in my way."

The room fell into tense silence. It was the third man, cloaked in dark robes and seated in shadow, who finally spoke. His voice, raspy and chilling, slithered into the air. "I have heard whispers," Kael said, the words dripping with ominous weight. "Whispers of a land beyond Torsand. A place called Earth."

Edgar's eyes narrowed. "Earth?" he echoed, his tone laced with incredulity. "That's just a child's bedtime story, Kael. A fairy tale."

"Perhaps," Kael admitted, his fingers steepled beneath his hood. "But the whispers speak of wonders beyond imagining. Weapons forged not of steel, but of pure energy. Machines that can cross continents in mere hours. Technologies that could reshape the very fabric of power. If such a place exists, it could hold the key to not just victory over Torsand, but dominion over all."

Edgar leaned back in his chair, studying Kael with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue. "And I suppose these 'whispers' conveniently come with a map to this mythical realm?"

Kael's lips curled into a faint, unsettling smile. "No. But there are those who could find the way, given the right... incentive."

Edgar chuckled darkly, his skepticism giving way to cold calculation. "Earth," he murmured, almost to himself. He let the word linger, as though tasting its weight. Then, dismissively, he waved a hand. "We'll focus on Torsand for now. Earth is an amusing distraction, nothing more."

Yet even as he said it, his mind raced. Earth. If Kael's whispers held even a shred of truth, and such a place truly existed... then Edgar knew exactly who could uncover its secrets. Raisa.

Straightening in his chair, Edgar's commanding tone returned. "Our plans for Torsand will proceed as discussed. We'll rally our forces, refine our strategy, and when the time is right, we will strike. Torsand's riches will be ours, and their name will be spoken of only in hushed tones of defeat."

The men exchanged grim nods, their faces shadowed with ambition. The hours slipped by in whispered plotting, their voices weaving a tapestry of war, greed, and conquest. By the time the first rays of dawn breached the chamber's heavy curtains, the men had dispersed, leaving Edgar alone.

He rose and approached the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. His thoughts churned, a vortex of strategies and schemes. Torsand was his first conquest, but it would not be his last. And Raisa... she would play her part, whether she realized it or not.

As the sky brightened, Edgar's lips curved into a cold smile. If Earth did exist, he would find a way to reach it. And when he did, its power would belong to him—no matter the cost.

Seven

The next morning, Edgar entered Raisa's study with a spring in his step and an unsettling gleam in his eye. His movements were brisk, almost buoyant, as if carrying a secret too delicious to keep to himself. He paused in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded her with a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Raisa," he began, his tone deceptively casual, "have you ever heard of a place called Earth?"

The name struck her like lightning. Raisa's breath hitched, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain Edgar could hear it. She froze, her mind scrambling to remain composed.

Don't react. Don't let him see.

"Earth?" she repeated, her voice carefully controlled. "No, Your Highness. I don't believe I have."

But Edgar's piercing gaze lingered on her, his blue eyes narrowing as if peeling away her layers. He was sharp—too sharp. He had caught it, the flicker of recognition that had flitted across her face, fleeting but enough to stoke his suspicions.

"Are you certain?" he pressed, his voice lower, harder. "Because I've heard... rumors."

Raisa's throat tightened. Her thoughts raced as she weighed her options. She couldn't deny all knowledge without risking further scrutiny, but revealing too much would be equally dangerous. "It's... a legend," she said finally, her voice soft but steady. "A story whispered in certain circles. I've never seen proof of its existence."

Edgar stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. His expression shifted to one of satisfaction, his suspicion now mingled with triumph. "But you've heard of it," he said, his voice sharp, relentless. "You know something about it."

Raisa looked away, gripping the edge of her desk as though it might anchor her. She forced a reluctant sigh. "It's said to be a land of wonders," she admitted, her words measured and careful, "of advanced technologies, of weapons more powerful than anything we can imagine. But it's just a story. A myth."

"And how would one get to this mythical land?" Edgar asked, his tone razor-edged now.

Raisa swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. She knew better than to lie outright, but she also had no intention of giving Edgar a clear path. "I don't know," she replied, her voice faltering slightly. "It's said that... portals might exist. But I've never created one, and I don't know if they're even possible."

Edgar's lips curved into a chilling smile, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "Then you will find out," he said, his voice suddenly curt, commanding. "You will create a portal to Earth, Raisa. You have one month. If you fail..." He let the words hang in the air, their weight heavier than the stone walls around them. "Let's just say your services will no longer be required."

Raisa's stomach churned as his words settled over her like a noose. Her blood ran cold. "Yes, Your Highness," she murmured quietly.

For the next few weeks, Raisa buried herself in her work. She rarely slept, her mind consumed with ancient texts and arcane diagrams, searching for a way to achieve the impossible. Her chambers became an organized chaos of scrolls, enchanted artifacts, and the faint glow of magical experiments late into the night. Hirum had taught her how to teleport and had accompanied her on many journeys through portals, but he had never shown her how to create one. The one time she had asked, Hirum had told her that was a lesson for another day. Apparently, they were difficult to create, even for a wizard as powerful as Hirum.

She knew Edgar's threat was not empty, and the pressure gnawed at her like a living thing. "Your services will no longer be needed" could be interpreted in many ways. Was he going to strip her of her title as Royal Consultant and kick her out of the palace? She could live with that. Raisa had made many friends in and around Oakhaven, and she would certainly find somewhere to live, if only temporarily. But what if he meant imprisonment or death? She did not fear death, but the idea of spending the rest of her days in a Vennug prison? No thank you.

One day, as Raisa paced the palace halls in search of inspiration, her feet carried her toward an unassuming corridor she had never noticed before. The thick layer of dust on the stone floor and the cobwebs draping the corners hinted at years of neglect. At the end of the hall, an old oak door stood ajar, its hinges creaking as she pushed it open.

The room beyond was dimly lit, filled with forgotten relics covered in sheets. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and mustiness. Raisa stepped inside, her fingers brushing against the dust-laden furniture and stacks of books. A glint of light caught her eye, and she turned to see a full-length mirror leaning against the far wall, its silver frame tarnished but still ornate. The sight of it sparked an idea. She knew mirrors were often used in ancient magical experiments—a portal, a boundary between worlds. Hirum had said he always used mirrors for portals. She again wished he had taught her how to create them.

With a bit of effort and a whispered spell to lighten its weight, she wheeled the mirror out of the storage room and into the palace gardens. Setting the mirror at the garden's edge, Raisa began her work. She stood before it, her hands trembling as she channeled her energy. The magic surged through her, burning like fire and ice as she whispered incantations she had never dared to speak aloud. Her mind focused on every tale she had ever heard of Earth, every whispered story she had dismissed as myth. She poured all her will into the mirror, visualizing not just a place but a possibility.

The surface of the mirror quivered, then rippled like water. Raisa held her breath as the ripple gave way to a swirling vortex of light and shadow. The air crackled with power, a sound like distant thunder filling her ears. She stepped closer, her heart hammering in her chest. There was no turning back now.

With one last deep breath, she reached out, her fingers brushing the mirror's surface. It pulled her in, the world bending and twisting around her until she felt her feet land on solid ground.

She opened her eyes. The dim light revealed towering metal beams and stacks of rusting crates. The air was heavy with dust, mingling with the faint smell of oil. She turned slowly, taking in the vast expanse of the abandoned warehouse, its silence broken only by the hum of distant machinery. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stepped toward a large set of doors, pushing them open.

The sight that greeted her took her breath away. The sky was a rich azure, dotted with wisps of white clouds. The streets stretched before her, paved with a strange black stone that glistened faintly. Horseless carriages—cars—zoomed past, their engines roaring as their sleek bodies gleamed in the sunlight. She blinked in disbelief as a sign caught her eye: "Pittsburgh, 80 miles." It was written in bold letters, its meaning both familiar and alien.

Nearby, a vehicle sped by, painted black and gold, with an emblem of a stylized bird. Another followed, its logo featuring a penguin. Solaris burned brightly overhead, warmer and closer than she had ever seen. The very air seemed charged with a restless energy.

She had done it. She had found Earth.

The return trip was a blur. The mirror's vortex pulled her back into her world, depositing her in the quiet gardens as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Raisa stood trembling, her mind a whirlwind of fear and awe. She had found Earth—but the knowledge left her cold.

She had to tell Edgar. There was no avoiding it. Yet dread weighed heavy on her heart, her thoughts spiraling as she envisioned what he might do with this power.

What have I done? she thought, her heart filled with fear and uncertainty. I've opened a door to a world I don't understand, and I've given Edgar the key. What will he do with this power? What will become of us all?

(c) Copyright 2026 Ray Kross