Charlatan
“And next, the final act of the night. For this, I will need a volunteer from the crowd. Will someone come forward?”
The voice belonged to a man dressed in flamboyant red, his black top hat dusted with glitter that caught the theater lights. He stood alone upon the wooden stage, framed by heavy curtains and the low murmur of anticipation. Faces in the audience were indistinct, blurred together by shadow and distance.
Hands rose eagerly.
The man scanned the crowd before pointing toward a girl no older than fourteen. She hesitated only a moment before being guided onto the stage. Her expression, like his, was impossible to clearly discern—features softened, as though memory itself refused to sharpen them.
With deliberate care, the man produced a rope and wrapped it around his waist, circling it twice. He then placed both loose ends into the girl’s hands. Turning to face the audience, he smiled with calm confidence, the kind that suggested certainty rather than bravado.
“Here lies my final act,” he announced. “I will escape these ropes without the use of hands or knives.”
He glanced down at the girl and spoke a single word.
“Pull.”
She did.
The rope snapped taut—yet instead of tightening around his body, it passed cleanly through him, as though he were no more substantial than smoke. The man remained standing, untouched, smiling as the rope fell slack in the girl’s hands.
For a heartbeat, the theater was silent.
Then the audience erupted. Applause thundered through the hall, cheers echoing off the walls as the man bowed deeply. The girl was escorted back to her seat, still clutching the rope as if unsure what she had just witnessed.
The curtains fell, signaling the end of the performance.
Somewhere in the crowd, a boy no older than six clapped his hands with unrestrained enthusiasm, his eyes alight with something newly awakened.
Snap.
A branch cracked beneath the sudden strain, no longer able to support the weight of the youth resting upon it.
Thud!
“Ah—!”
The boy tumbled from the tree and struck the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He lay still for a moment, pain radiating through his back after the fall from nearly two meters above.
He was a teenager, with black hair and green eyes, his features delicate yet composed—slender brows, a narrow nose, and a well-shaped face that balanced between softness and strength. He was neither skinny nor plump, but comfortably in between.
Groaning, he pushed himself up with both hands and slowly sat upright. His right hand moved to his back, rubbing the sore spot as his face twisted into a grimace.
“Ouch… bloody hell,” he muttered. “What kind of stupid branch is that? It never broke when I jumped around on it like a monkey—but the one day I sleep on it, it decides to give up under my weight?”
With care, the boy rose to his feet and brushed dirt and leaves from his clothes.
He was Brandon Berg—the son of the local baron of Blumberg, a city situated just beyond the capital of the Aster Kingdom.
Brandon let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at the old tree looming above him.
What a dream, he thought. It’s been a long while since I dreamed of that day. One day… yes.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as the memory of the magician’s final act lingered in his mind.
A cool autumn breeze swept past him, stirring the leaves and reminding him of the lateness of the hour.
“It’s almost time for supper,” Brandon said quietly. “Best get back to the castle.”
He turned and followed the dirt road behind him, one that wound gently downward toward the city of Blumberg.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the city came into view. It was neither small nor grand—modest, yet firmly established.
About half the size of a single region of Asteria, Brandon estimated.
Asteria, the royal capital of the Aster Kingdom, was divided into five regions: north, south, east, west, and center. The center belonged exclusively to the royal family and the nobility, while the remaining four regions housed the rest of the populace.
Blumberg’s stone walls rose roughly five meters high, encircling the city. Outside the main gate, a line had formed where guards inspected travelers and collected tolls from those entering.
Standing atop a hill, Brandon overlooked the town nestled in a valley between two mountains. By his estimation, the population numbered around ten thousand.
He exhaled slowly, then veered off onto another dirt path that led toward the western side of the city, where tall trees grew thick and close.
After another fifteen minutes, he stopped before two trees growing side by side, so close to the city wall that they appeared almost fused to it. At a glance, anyone would assume the trunks pressed directly against the stone—but closer inspection revealed a narrow gap between tree and wall.
Brandon crouched and turned sideways, carefully wiggling himself into the space. Hidden within was a hole just large enough for a person to crawl through.
He moved slowly, mindful of his clothes and the rough stone, until he emerged on the other side.
Once through, Brandon brushed himself off again and scanned the alleyway he had entered.
This was the western quarter of the city, inhabited mostly by laborers and merchants. The street itself was oddly quiet—no doors faced this side, and few people had any reason to pass through.
Brandon’s gaze shifted from the brick houses lining the alley to the castle not far beyond them, built of bluish-grey stone and guarded by three watchtowers rising above the city.
This was Brandon’s home—the Castle of Blumberg, seat of House Berg for countless generations.
Though baron was not the highest noble title within the Aster Kingdom, the House of Berg had earned its honor through long years of service and merit in war. Its banners were not raised through lineage alone, but through blood spilled on distant fields and loyalty proven time and again.
Brandon’s stomach growled faintly.
He was famished, yet returning through the main gates was not an option. No one knew he had left the castle grounds at all.
And if they did, questions would follow.
Why had the baron’s son wandered beyond the city walls? Why had he been alone on the outskirts so close to dusk?
Today was the solar equinox—a day overlooked by most, yet quietly revered by those who studied the occult and practiced the arts of hidden power. A night when veils were said to thin and symbols carried greater weight.
Brandon had prepared his excuse carefully. He had claimed he would be spending the afternoon at a friend’s house, an explanation mundane enough to avoid suspicion.
Turning left, he made his way deeper into the western quarter, following roads paved with worn limestone. The stones were smoothed by decades of foot traffic, their pale surfaces stained darker in places by rain, ash, and neglect.
The west side of Blumberg was louder than the alleys near the wall. The scent of spices, oil, and sweat thickened the air as Brandon passed through the bazaar. Merchants called out their wares—cloth, dried herbs, metal trinkets—voices overlapping in a constant hum. Lanterns were already being lit, their glow flickering as dusk settled in.
Brandon kept his head lowered and his pace unhurried, blending in among common folk despite his finer clothes. No one paid him much attention; nobles rarely lingered here long enough to be noticed.
He stopped before a modest shop tucked between two larger stalls—a clothing store whose front displayed folded tunics and cloaks in muted colors. After a brief glance around, Brandon slipped past the side of the building, moving into the narrow space behind it.
There, half-hidden by stacked crates and hanging fabric, was a small back door.
Without hesitation, Brandon tested the handle—and quietly slipped inside.
He closed the door slowly behind him and made his way upstairs. There were no servants in this household, and both of his friend’s parents were busy tending to the shop below.
Brandon approached the bedroom door and pushed it open.
“Derrick, I’ve returned,” he said quietly. “Did you finish what you started?”
Seated on the floor was a lean boy about Brandon’s age. Derrick Mich—whom Brandon had grown acquainted with a few years ago while attending the Aster Royal Academy—sat surrounded by sheets of paper and paint jars.
Derrick snapped his head up, staring at Brandon with wide, unfocused eyes, as though he had not expected him to be standing there at all.
“B–Brandon?” he stammered. “When did you get back? I didn’t even hear you come in.”
Lost entirely in his work, Derrick had missed Brandon’s arrival—and the sudden interruption clearly startled him.
Brandon sighed softly. This behavior was nothing new.
“Hah… about a minute ago,” Brandon replied dryly. “Really, one day you’re going to get assassinated by some random goon and not even realize it.”
He sat down beside Derrick and studied the painting spread out on the floor.
It was a delicate piece, done in watercolors and pale hues—a tranquil lake resting in the heart of a lush forest, light rippling across the surface. The scene felt peaceful, almost unreal.
“Not bad,” Brandon said, nodding in approval. “So—did you sketch something in my notebook as well?”
Derrick didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he reached beside him, grabbed a brown, leather-bound sketchbook, and opened it. Inside was a fresh drawing: a simple wooden table with a carefully detailed fruit basket resting atop it.
Brandon examined it for a moment before nodding.
“I knew you were a sport when I first met you,” he said. “That’ll do.”
He stood, tucking the sketchbook under his arm. “I’ll take my leave now. No need to see me out.”
Before Derrick could reply, Brandon was already out the door.
He descended the stairs quickly and nearly collided with Derrick’s parents on his way out. Aron and Jenny Mich were returning from the shop floor, hands still faintly dusted with fabric lint.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mich,” Brandon said politely, offering a small bow. “I’ll be taking my leave now—it’s already quite late. I hope you have a wonderful rest of the day.”
“Oh, young lord,” Mrs. Mich replied warmly. “Have a safe journey back. Please give our regards to the Baron and Baroness.”
Aron Mich nodded in agreement. He was a respected businessman with modest but respectable wealth—enough, at least, to send his son to the Aster Royal Academy on a partial scholarship.
Brandon didn’t linger.
Clutching the sketchbook close, he made his way swiftly back toward the castle.
Brandon stood before the castle gates, pausing as his gaze traced the familiar lines of his home.
Blumberg Castle rose from the earth like a patient sentinel—its walls built of bluish-grey stone, weathered by age yet meticulously maintained. Three watchtowers loomed above the main structure, their narrow windows glowing faintly with torchlight. Carved sigils and banners bearing the crest of House Berg adorned the outer walls, muted rather than ostentatious, reflecting a family that valued service over display. The wooden gate was thick and reinforced with iron bands, scarred by time and past conflicts yet unwavering.
A guard atop the wall spotted him and called down an order.
With a low creak, chains rattled as the heavy wooden door was lowered. Brandon stepped forward, the scent of stone and torch smoke greeting him as the entrance opened. Inside, two guards clad in full knightly armor stood at attention and saluted.
“Welcome back, sir,” one of them said. “Supper is ready, and the lord is waiting for you in the dining room.”
Brandon brushed past without a word. It was not rudeness, merely habit—his nature was nonchalant and willful, even within his own household.
He made his way through the stone corridors and soon reached the dining hall.
There, seated at the long oak table, were his family. His mother, Baroness Arina, sat with composed elegance, her posture straight and her expression calm. Across from her was his father, Baron Dutch Berg, broad-shouldered and stern yet relaxed in the quiet comfort of home. Beside them sat his younger sister, Anastasia, two years Brandon’s junior, happily occupied with her meal.
Brandon inclined his head slightly.
“My apologies for the lateness, Lord Baron,” he said evenly. “I became immersed in my sketching and lost track of time.”
The baron regarded him for a moment before giving a brief nod.
“Sit.”
Brandon took his place at the table.
The meal was hearty, befitting their standing—roasted game seasoned with herbs, fresh bread still warm from the oven, stewed vegetables, and a modest serving of cheese and fruit. Wine was poured sparingly for the adults, while Brandon drank from a cup of water. Conversation was minimal, consisting mostly of Anastasia’s quiet remarks and the clink of cutlery against polished wood.
It was a meal without ceremony, but not without order.
When supper concluded, the servants cleared the table, and the family rose one by one. Baron Dutch retired first, followed by Baroness Arina, who ushered Anastasia toward her chambers. Brandon lingered only a moment longer before heading down the corridor to his own room.
The castle gradually fell into silence as candles were extinguished and doors closed.
One by one, the members of House Berg retired for the night.
Brandon’s chambers were nothing extravagant—just a simple room befitting a noble who valued privacy over display. A neatly made bed rested against one wall, beside a modest wardrobe filled with his clothes. Near the window stood a sturdy desk, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Along the opposite wall, a shelf held numerous books, their spines marked by age and study—volumes on ethics, history, and political science.
Such knowledge was considered essential for nobles tasked with governing land and people.
Brandon slid his sketchbook into a particular slot on the shelf, careful to place it exactly where it belonged. Then he knelt beside the desk and slipped his hand beneath it, fingers searching along the underside. After a moment, he found what he was looking for.
A hidden switch.
He flicked it.
With a soft click, a side compartment slid open from the desk’s frame. The desk itself had been specially commissioned from a carpenter in Blumberg. No one knew of its concealed mechanism—save Brandon and the man who had built it.
Inside lay a thick journal bound in black leather, secured with a leather strap.
Brandon withdrew it, unbuckled the strap, and opened the cover.
The pages within were dense with writing—entries chronicling his travels, his observations, and his private studies into the occult. Some passages were careful and analytical; others bordered on reverent.
He turned to a fresh page and wrote:
Today I performed a ritual in the woods, calling upon the power of the sun to bless and protect me from all harm that may come my way. Later, I will offer a prayer to the moon, drawing her sigil and seeking her blessing in return.
When he finished, Brandon closed the journal and fastened the strap once more before returning it to the hidden compartment. With another flick of the switch, the desk sealed itself as though nothing had ever been disturbed.
He turned toward the window.
Outside, a waning moon hung low in the night sky, pale and distant.
Brandon placed his right palm against his chest. With practiced precision, he formed a hand sign—his pinky and ring finger folded beneath his thumb, the remaining two fingers extended outward. Slowly, deliberately, he traced a spiral in the air, moving from the outer edge inward. He raised his hand, angled it sharply to the right, then drew a horizontal line followed by a vertical one descending downward.
It was his own sigil.
A symbol he had created himself.
When the motion was complete, Brandon opened his eyes and released a quiet breath.
He extinguished the candle, lay down upon his bed, and allowed sleep to claim him.
Tak. Tak. Tak.
A hurried knock struck Brandon’s door.
He jolted awake, heart lurching as the sound tore him from peaceful sleep.
“Who is it?” he demanded, his voice sharp with irritation—and something closer to unease.
“Y–young lord, it’s me—James,” came the strained reply from the other side. “S–something has happened in the city square. The baron requests your immediate presence.”
The city square? Brandon thought, his brow knitting. What could have happened?
The city square lay at the very heart of Blumberg, dominated by Saint Vincent’s Cathedral. The cathedral belonged to the sole religion practiced across the Kingdom of Asteria and its neighboring lands—the Church of the Holy Lord, devoted to the God of Light and Prosperity. It was there that proclamations were made, judgments passed, and the will of both crown and church made public.
A knot formed in Brandon’s stomach.
He hadn’t even eaten breakfast.
Are we going to war with a neighboring kingdom?
His thoughts raced as he dressed hastily and hurried outside, where a carriage waited beyond the castle gates.
Inside sat Baron Dutch, his posture rigid, his expression grim.
“Father!”
“Hurry,” the baron said curtly. “Board at once. We must not be late.”
Brandon didn’t press further. He climbed inside, and the carriage lurched forward at once, wheels clattering against stone as they headed toward the city square.
“Lord Baron,” Brandon ventured at last, “why the urgency? Are we at war?”
Baron Dutch shook his head, though his expression remained severe.
Before he could explain further, the carriage slowed.
They had arrived.
A dense crowd filled the city square, parting reluctantly as the baron’s carriage approached. At the center stood a wooden stake, freshly erected.
Brandon’s breath caught.
Holy Lord… this? Is this what I think it is?
Knights clad in unfamiliar armor stood nearby, bearing the insignia of the Church upon their chests. Between them was a man in shackles—lean, brown-haired, with bluish-grey eyes and short hair parted neatly in the middle.
Brandon’s blood ran cold.
Wait… is that—Professor Jonathan?
The man bound to the stake was Jonathan Smith, a former professor of history at the Aster Royal Academy—the very man who had taught Brandon years ago.
That realization was not the only one that unsettled him.
Could this really be happening?
“Son,” Baron Dutch said quietly, “this professor stands accused of witchcraft and of conspiring with spirits. I recall he once taught you, did he not?”
Brandon nodded numbly.
Before he could speak, the crowd erupted.
“Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
The chant thundered through the square. Only a few stood silent—those who knew Jonathan personally. Among them, Brandon spotted Derrick, pale and rigid, his eyes meeting Brandon’s across the crowd.
The carriage halted. Baron Dutch stepped down, and Brandon followed as they approached the bishop presiding over Saint Vincent’s Cathedral.
“Holy Bishop,” the baron said firmly, “this man is a respected professor of the Royal Academy. You cannot simply—”
“Lord Baron,” the bishop interrupted coldly, “this man has confessed to his crimes and accepted the charges laid upon him. He is guilty.”
Baron Dutch’s jaw tightened. Who wouldn’t confess under the Church’s methods?
“Do you doubt me?” the bishop continued. “Then let us hear it from him.”
The bishop stepped forward. Derrick quietly moved to Brandon’s side.
Raising his hand, the bishop silenced the crowd.
“This man,” he proclaimed, “a professor of history at the esteemed Aster Royal Academy, has been charged with witchcraft. He has confessed. When offered mercy in exchange for repentance, he refused—and mocked the grace of the Holy Lord. Therefore, he shall burn.”
The bishop turned toward the bound man.
“Do you have any last words?”
The square fell deathly quiet.
Jonathan swallowed, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady his breath. When he finally spoke, he shouted with all the strength he had left.
“These are the last words of Jonathan Smith! I followed my heart and lived the life that called to me. You ask me to live suppressed beneath your dogma—I refuse. And for that, I will gladly give my life, so that the next generation may live theirs freely.”
His gaze shifted—appearing to meet Baron Dutch’s eyes, but settling instead on Brandon.
A message… for me?
Brandon understood.
“You tried to suppress my dream,” Jonathan continued, his voice breaking yet resolute, “so I hid it behind my breath and buried it deep within my chest. Even if you kill me—my dream will live on.”
A knight stepped forward, torch blazing. He glanced at the bishop, who nodded once.
The torch was thrown.
Flames erupted as the oil-soaked wood ignited, fire crawling upward toward Jonathan’s feet.
“Aaah—!”
His scream tore through the square, raw and human. It rose once—then cut short. His head slumped forward, body going still.
The crowd roared with approval.
Brandon stood frozen. Derrick beside him did not move.
Later, the baron ushered them both into the carriage. Derrick was dropped off near his father’s shop, silent and pale. Brandon said nothing as the castle walls came back into view.
Once inside Blumberg Castle, Brandon returned to his chambers.
He did not emerge again until supper.
Knock. Knock.
A maid stood outside Brandon’s door.
“Young lord,” she called softly, “the lord baron requests your presence for supper. Please proceed to the dining room at once.”
After a moment, the door opened.
Brandon stood there with disheveled hair and unfocused eyes, clearly having just woken from sleep. After returning from the square, the weight of his emotions had been too much—he had collapsed onto his bed and drifted into a restless slumber.
He straightened his clothes and made his way to the dining hall.
Every member of the family was present.
“Dear,” Baroness Arina said gently, though her eyes carried a warning beneath the concern, “I know this must be difficult for you. But you must eat. That professor knew the risks of the path he chose.”
Brandon nodded and took his seat.
His interest in the occult had begun when he was six years old—long before he learned how to hide it properly. It was impossible for his family not to know. This was his mother consoling him… and cautioning him not to follow the same fate.
He ate in silence, memories surfacing unbidden.
Orientation at the academy.
The lectures.
And then—the shared curiosity for what lay beyond accepted knowledge.
How had Brandon known Jonathan Smith so well?
First, the professor lived in Blumberg. Second, he occasionally hosted discreet gatherings for those interested in forbidden subjects—gatherings Brandon had attended more than once. Such meetings were not uncommon among seekers of hidden knowledge; secrecy was simply part of the practice.
Jonathan’s last words echoed again in Brandon’s mind.
Hidden behind my breath…
His brow furrowed.
What did he mean by—wait.
A spark ignited.
Haven’t I heard this before?
He recalled Jonathan speaking often about breath—about its symbolism, its concealment, its dual meaning. A flash of understanding passed through him, but he said nothing.
No one spoke again until supper ended.
“Brother…” Anastasia asked hesitantly, “was that professor in a lot of pain?”
On the surface, it sounded like an innocent question from a younger sister. Brandon knew better.
You’ve learned to disguise intent well, he thought grimly. Too well.
“Don’t concern yourself with that,” he said calmly. “He’s gone to a better place.”
He left immediately afterward, retreating to his chambers and closing the door behind him.
“That brat,” he muttered under his breath. “She was implying that I may one day suffer the same fate.”
But the truth was—Brandon wasn’t worried about Jonathan’s pain.
He knew exactly what had happened.
Once, Brandon remembered, I asked him what he would do if he were ever burned at the stake.
Jonathan had answered casually:
“You see this wisdom tooth? I’ve hidden a vial of painless poison inside it. If I bite down, it will end before the fire does.”
At the time, Brandon had thought him mad.
You were right, Brandon thought bitterly. And still… I wish you weren’t.
He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as thoughts churned relentlessly. Having slept through the afternoon, sleep would not come again.
Three hours passed.
At midnight, Brandon abruptly sat up.
One thing had become clear.
“The professor’s last words were a code,” he whispered. “And I know what they mean.”
He opened his wardrobe and withdrew a small sachet. Inside were his savings—fifteen silver coins, twenty-three copper coins, and eight pennies. Enough for a common family to live comfortably for a year.
He slipped out of his room and checked the corridor.
Clear.
Moving silently, he reached the rear entrance of the stables, where a lone guard stood watch. The man nodded knowingly—one of the few Brandon occasionally paid to keep quiet.
“Here,” Brandon said, slipping him three copper coins. “Say nothing.”
“Have I ever, young lord?” the guard replied with a wry grin.
Brandon passed through the southern gate of the castle, heading toward the quieter side of Blumberg where Professor Jonathan had lived. Patrols roamed the main roads, but Brandon avoided them, taking a longer dirt path along the city’s outer edge.
At a fork in the road, he paused.
To the right, Jonathan’s cabin was illuminated by torches.
Church knights, Brandon realized. Searching for something.
Approaching the cabin was impossible.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to.
He took the left path, climbing a winding hill until a large black iron gate came into view—half open.
“The Blackberry Cemetery,” Brandon murmured.
There were no gatekeepers. No undertakers.
Perfect.
His gaze settled on a small grave near the edge—smaller than most.
He wiped away dirt from the engraving.
Breath.
Jonathan’s dog. Dead for five years.
“This is it,” Brandon whispered. “The dream is hidden behind this grave.”
Behind the headstone, disturbed earth was visible. Nearby lay a small shovel.
Brandon grabbed it and began digging.
Five minutes passed.
Then—
Thud.
The shovel struck something solid. His hands trembled as he cleared the remaining dirt by hand.
A box emerged—about a foot long, wrapped in red cloth.
He unwrapped it carefully.
The box was strange. A circular ring inscribed with letters ran along its surface. A curved line marked with nine notches stretched from the left side to the top, forming the shape of a six.
“Six…” Brandon breathed. “The number of change.”
A locking mechanism.
No time, he thought. Once they finish the cabin, this place will be next.
He reburied the hole putting the clothe inside, concealing all traces, and hurried away. The knights were still near the cabin when he reached the fork again.
Thank the Lord for slow idiots.
Back inside the castle, Brandon finally exhaled and placed the chest upon his desk.
Now came the true challenge.
What’s the code?
He examined the mechanism closely.
Six… wait.
Whenever Jonathan hosted gatherings, attendees were given robes, masks, and numbers.
Jonathan’s number had always been—6 and his code name.
“Charlatan.”
Brandon aligned the letter C with the curved guide and locked it into the first notch.
Then H.
Then A.
One by one, all nine letters.
On the final letter—N—
Click.
The box shifted. Its edges lifted slightly.
Brandon opened it slowly.
Inside lay several objects.
And resting atop them—
A half-folded letter.
