The Legacy of the Fallen Mage

”A deafening pulse hammered against my temples. An unnaturally bright light flooded the small room, searing my eyes. I wanted to hide, to run, to do anything. Pressure crushed my temples, my chest burned, and a feverish heat coursed through my veins. Time dragged like treacle, in no hurry to release me from this hellish torment. I prayed for only one thing: silence. Whether by chance or because my prayer had been heard, it came at last. Even my heart dared not beat again. It fell silent forever."

“Are you writing a chronicle or something? ‘Hellish torment’, ‘time dragging like treacle’... Who talks like that anymore?” The exasperated writer crumpled the sheet of paper and tossed it at the man beside him.

The man frowned and clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“I do. That's how I lived.”

“Then stop living like it's the twelfth century. Even I was getting bored listening to you.”

“You're never satisfied.” Without making any attempt to dodge it, he picked up the crumpled ball of paper, smoothed it out, and placed it back on the desk.

“I'm trying to put your story on paper, so stop talking nonsense. I get it—you’re mysterious. But the readers won't.” Glancing at the flattened sheet, the writer rolled it back into a ball and lobbed it neatly into the wastepaper basket.

His companion rubbed the bridge of his nose and gave a weary nod. This ordeal had been dragging on for at least a couple of hours now, keeping him from more important matters. With his hands clasped behind his back, he turned his gaze to the window.

“Very well.”

It happened long ago. Far too long ago for anyone to remember the details. Yet one man still did. His memories painted a picture of a perfect life: Gilbert von Flavius, the future Duke of Bavaria, fortune's favourite. All he had to do was enjoy himself and prepare to rule. Yet neither the splendour of the castle nor the attention of the ladies at court was enough to satisfy his ambition. He knew they were drawn only to his father's status, not to his keen mind, and certainly not to the man he was. Just like everyone else who sought to curry favour with him.

Gilbert spent entire days in his spacious study, poring over books on magic. His wooden desk groaned beneath piles of parchment and ancient, dust-covered volumes he had read countless times. The young aristocrat had no interest in the works of charlatans. He was far more fortunate than that: he had been born a mage, one of the privileged few with access to the finest works of the great masters, whose knowledge was worth more than his life.

The curiosity that had driven him since childhood urged him to experiment, to achieve, to learn. It was that same hunger for more that led him first to serious reflection, and then to an attempt to prolong life.

Forever.

Life was fleeting, he had learned that much after his uncle's death. Even the greatest mages could not escape its limits. He found that profoundly unjust: to command magic, master its formulae, to possess everything except death itself.

His fingers tightened around the quill, swollen veins standing out across the back of his hand. With a sharp sweep, another sheet of parchment was sent skidding across the cold stone floor.

“...This won't work! It simply won't!”

His brows drew together in a deep frown. Years of effort had brought him nothing but frustration. A ragged breath escaped his chest, leaving the bitter taste of disappointment on his tongue. The darkness of his hair veiled his eyes, concealing the humiliation of yet another failure. His pupils narrowed, lending his violet eyes a feverish madness, while the burst capillaries from countless sleepless nights only made them more unsettling.

It was the sixth week of relentless attempts to achieve immortality, more promising than those of previous years, yet still without success. Giving up was not an option. His pride would never allow it.

Taking up a fresh sheet of parchment, he covered it with symbols and new formulae until exhaustion overtook him, again and again.

From time to time, even the quill gave way under the relentless pressure, snapping with a faint crack beneath his hand. At last, his body gave in as well. Several sleepless nights had taken their toll, even on someone as stubborn as he was. Exhaustion quietly claimed his mind, drawing him into darkness, where there were no formulae, no problems — only peace.

Sleep released him before dawn. The sun had only just begun to rise above the horizon, forcing eyes accustomed to the half-light to squint against its harsh brightness. The persistent knocking grated on his nerves so badly that quiet curses slipped from his lips. Rubbing his temples with restrained irritation, the mage called,

“Come in.”

A servant entered and bowed. He hastily delivered an urgent message, then withdrew as soon as Gilbert gave his approval. It was no easy task to balance his vital research with the tedious obligations that came with his station, and wasting time on estate affairs and taxes seemed utterly pointless.

His eyelids grew heavy, drowsiness settling over his weary mind like a welcome embrace. As the sun steadily drove back the last remnants of night, it seemed almost insistent in its reminder of duty. Like the sun itself, Gilbert had a duty to fulfil each day. He rose from the wooden chair and left the study.

The palace was already stirring to life. Servants hurried to and fro, while nobles strolled through the halls at an unhurried pace, discussing their affairs as they went. Everyone looked refreshed, or at least presentable. The same can hardly be said of the mage with his black hair and ink-stained tunic.. Eyes lingered on him a little too long, yet no one dared voice a single remark. The stern set of his brows and the perpetual scowl he had inherited from the old Duke made it abundantly clear that such comments would not be welcome.

His father ordered the weary mage to carry out a long list of duties, among them settling yet another quarrel between drunken knights who, once again, had fallen out over a horse. Gilbert gripped the stack of military reports his father handed him more tightly than necessary.

“My son, you look dreadful. It does not befit an heir to appear... like this.” The Duke pointed at his son with open disdain, as though he had just staggered in after spending the night in a pigsty.

Gilbert said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the wall, as though looking straight through it.

His father watched him with undisguised irritation, and the old scar beneath Gilbert's shoulder blade began to ache once more. Unwilling to test his patience, he left the hall without a word of protest.

In recent years, Gilbert's responsibilities had grown considerably. It was his father's way of forcing him to devote as much time as possible to the duties expected of an heir instead of wasting it on books.

The old lord watched him go but said nothing. Wearily, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His heir fulfilled every duty faithfully, yet his heart had never belonged to the duchy. That truth wounded the old Duke deeply, for he had no other sons.

The study welcomed him with its familiar scent of herbs and the ash left behind by yet another pile of burnt papers. Only the comforting half-light was gone, replaced by the bright morning sun that flooded the small room. It was not until evening that he finally found time to return to his research.

“My lord? Are you in there?” a man's voice called from behind the door, followed by a firm knock.

Gilbert's hand came down hard on the desk, splattering fresh ink across the parchment.

“Damn it all...” he hissed through clenched teeth.

A heartbeat later, he recognised the owner of the voice.

“Nikolas? Is that you?”

“I am.” Nikolas chuckled. “May I come in?”

“I'm busy.”

“All the worse for your work.”

A heavy silence tightened around the mage's throat. The young man possessed an almost unbelievable audacity, and his interruptions always came at the worst possible moment, when Gilbert's most important work was at stake.

Taking the silence for permission, Nikolas tried the handle. It gave a mournful groan but refused to budge.

“Don't make me embarrass myself in front of the servants by breaking down your door. I'd rather not ruin my new shoes on it.”

He muttered darkly before giving the door a sharp kick.

“And what was the point of locking it in the first place? Who else would willingly die buried under a mountain of parchment?”

Such genuine indignation only irritated Gilbert further. After all, it was Nikolas who had disturbed his peace. If anyone had the right to complain, it certainly was not him.

Gilbert rolled his eyes and, instead of answering with another reproach, reluctantly opened the door.

Standing before him was a striking young man with golden hair and deep brown eyes. Nikolas was an aristocrat whose family stood close to the Duke's, and a childhood friend—though Gilbert himself would hardly have called him that. Friendship, like every other attachment, only distracted a man from his work. At least, that was what he believed. For the time being, Nikolas and his family, together with their retinue, were staying at the castle as guests, which meant their paths crossed all too often.

“New shoes? You could've fooled me.”

A faint smirk touched Gilbert's lips as he glanced down at his friend's boots before stepping aside to let him in.

The study was in no better condition than its owner, littered with scattered parchments and open books. Nikolas wrinkled his nose at the stale air and the lingering smell of burnt candles.

“Nothing ever changes in here. Do you truly spend your nights buried in these notes?”

Curious, the blond man picked up one of the parchments with the tips of his fingers, then dropped it again with obvious distaste before clearing himself a place at the desk.

He settled into the chair, idly swinging his legs.

“How about sparing a little of your time for me? At this rate, the servants will start mistaking you for the library's ghost.”

Nikolas often joked like this. Gilbert treated it with quiet indulgence, perhaps even a touch of warmth.

“For you?” Gilbert let out the heaviest sigh, his already weary eyes lifting heavenward in a silent prayer as he discreetly gathered the scattered parchments out of sight. “Highly unlikely. Get off my desk and tell me why you're here. I have work to do.”

“You're impossible.” Nikolas smiled without taking offence. “Though I do have a reason for coming. My father has decided it's time I married, so he's hosting a feast. I thought I'd stop by and tell you. Besides, who else would greet me with such a miserable face but you?”

His long, elegant fingers absently twirled a golden lock of hair as a gentle smile played on his lips while he waited for an answer.

After a brief silence, Gilbert finally spoke.

“I'm afraid my work will keep me busy. But I'll come.”

Nikolas nodded, hopped down from the desk, and gave his friend a light pat on the shoulder.

“Good luck with all those parchments. I'm glad I got to see you.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, the study sank back into its familiar, oppressive silence. The chair creaked helplessly beneath his weight as his hand came to rest upon the oak desk.

His thoughts drifted to his uncle—the man who had created an entire magical world for people like him, who had taught and guided him. Gilbert would have chosen him over the endless world of duties his father had built around him. But he stayed, bound by the family he loved.

“I miss you, Uncle,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.

After his uncle's death, Gilbert often found himself returning to those memories. He had been sixteen when it happened. It was the first death that had ever truly shattered his world. It had awakened a quiet defiance—a desperate desire to break the relentless cycle of life and death.

Perhaps that was the moment his obsession was born.

Or perhaps it had simply been the fear of death.

His hand reached instinctively for the hidden drawer in the desk, where his greatest treasure lay—Merlin's grimoire, containing all his writings and secrets. Gilbert took quiet pride in it. The book had been meant for his cousins to inherit, yet it had come into his hands instead. He longed to become the genius his uncle had been, but the formula continued to elude him.

Hundreds of failures. Thousands of burns and magical backlash. Unnecessary deaths, and still no progress.

Anger boiled in his veins at the hopelessness of it all, at the absence of an answer. He wanted to tear everything apart, to destroy every last thing around him if only it would free him from that suffocating sense of mediocrity.

Scrolls flew from the desk with a sharp whistle.

Gilbert turned the familiar pages without emotion, their margins stained with ink blots and crowded with his own notes, until his eyes stopped on a single sentence.

He had read it tens of thousands of times, yet today something shifted.

The spell itself had nothing to do with immortality, yet it became the very thing that sparked an idea. A fleeting realisation. A chance.

In a burst of inspiration, he snatched up a clean sheet of parchment, hastily wrote down a new version of the ritual, and—

“All this time, I was looking only at death. But if I unite life and death... it will work. Yes!”

The walls trembled beneath laughter that hovered on the edge of madness. They had long forgotten any sound other than weary sighs and the harshest of curses.

“Thank you, Uncle... thank you!”

From that moment on, the Duke's spirits improved noticeably, and preparations for the ritual began, this time with its creator taking part.

Gilbert set himself a strict deadline: everything had to be ready before the feast. It was the perfect opportunity. No one would disturb him; everyone would be gathered in the great hall. Better still, the time needed to gather every ingredient matched the occasion perfectly.

Only a month remained, and there was much to do.

He began with the most important task: preparing his own grimoire, as every great mage did. Into it he recorded all of his research and discoveries, including every detail of the ritual.

Yet he had no desire to surrender that knowledge so easily. The road to it had been far too arduous to hand it over to just anyone.

Then the answer came to him.

He would encrypt the ritual itself and lay a curse upon the grimoire.

Only one worthy of it would be able to decipher the text and make use of the formulas. A mage too weak would die. A fool would never translate them.

As the foundation of the cipher, he chose Ancient Elvish, a language he had mastered under his uncle's guidance.

Such was the price of what Gilbert believed to be truly great work. And once the grimoire was complete, he did exactly that. Its secrets could no longer be stolen, and only a mage bound to him by blood would ever be able to use them.

The next step carried far greater risk.

With a spell, he summoned the Book of Bloodlines — an artefact of which every magical house possessed its own copy. It sustained a family's magical power and nourished every member of the bloodline. Its purpose was also to strengthen the bloodline with each passing generation, for when a mage died, part of their magic returned to the Book, while the rest flowed back into the magical world.

Gilbert ran his cold fingers across the parchment, feeling its rough surface beneath his fingertips.

He opened the page devoted to his own bloodline.

For a long moment, he stared at his own name, clenching and unclenching his fist.

He had long since devised a ritual capable of altering the very nature of the artefact.

And yet he hesitated.

After a long moment, he dismissed the spell and left the study.

Next came the ritual's ingredients.

Moonstone was the easiest to obtain. He collected it at the foot of the mountain beneath the full moon. The task itself was simple; only the moon's position had to be calculated precisely, otherwise the mineral was useless. The blossom of the morning fern had to be gathered at dawn, and only from a young plant. The fern served as a stabiliser, while the Moonstone was capable of absorbing life force.

“I'll have to find an infant... I hate this part. If it doesn't work...”

He did not finish the thought.

The very thought of a pointless killing repulsed him. He could not bring himself to begin with such a measure, so one final step remained.

A few days later, he made his way to the cemetery.

He passed rows of neglected stone headstones and weathered grave slabs before stopping at the oldest grave, long since overgrown with grass and weeds. The writings of those who had come before him offered only one certainty: an old bone retained death better than any other. Why, no one knew.

Pulling his hood lower over his face, he crouched beside the grave. His features tightened at the task ahead. Time was short. The bone had to be taken between one o'clock and half past two in the morning.

He let out a quiet sigh, picked up the spade resting behind him, and began to dig until the metal struck the skull of the long-dead occupant.

Climbing down into the grave, he retrieved the tibia.

“Disgusting.”

His face twisted with revulsion at the remains. Digging through earth in the dead of night was torture enough for an aristocrat.

Slipping the bone into his satchel, he hurried away from the resting place of the dead. Gilbert was not superstitious, yet a chill ran down his spine, followed by quiet relief as he left the cemetery behind.

Time was running short.

Only life remained to be found.

The ritual relied upon the union of the living and the dead: a human life and a flowering plant; a stone and a human tibia. The writings of earlier mages agreed that only the tibia served as a suitable conduit for those energies; no other bone would do.

The final link was a dagger forged from cursed steel and tempered in an infant's blood, a task that still lay ahead.

As he studied the assembled ingredients, Gilbert drummed his fingers rhythmically against the desk, his hand resting beneath his chin. He rose from his chair and paced the study several times. His gaze shifted between the ritual implements and the window, deep in thought.

Only then did he stop to consider what would become of his family after he was gone. Whatever the outcome.

His mother, forced to endure the loss of another child, pricking her hands raw with embroidery instead of shedding tears. His sister, who would once again weep in secret. Even his father, who had never known how to speak of his feelings.

For several minutes, he wrestled with his doubts. Then, with a loud slam of the door, he left the study to clear his mind.

A walk in the fresh air cleared his mind and quieted his doubts, if only a little. At last, the resolve he had lacked returned to him. He summoned one of his trusted guards.

“My lord.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man entered the private chambers and bowed.

“Straight to the point. Find an infant in some remote village. An orphan, if possible. No questions. Once you've found one, bring the infant to me. No one must know about this. If necessary…” He tossed a pouch of gold at the guard's feet. “…pay for it.”

The guard paled almost imperceptibly.

In all the years he had served Gilbert, he had never looked so unsettled. Strange orders were nothing new, usually they meant searching for unusual alloys or obscure books. He recovered quickly, gave another bow, and withdrew.

Gilbert let out a quiet breath.

From that moment on, the weight upon his shoulders was gone.

The first step had been taken.

His next stop was the blacksmith's forge, with a most unusual request—to forge a dagger from an alloy of obsidian and silver. Gilbert paid the blacksmith generously. The man understood the unspoken message and asked no questions. Rumours had long circulated about sorcerers who used obsidian to commune with the Devil.

As he stepped outside, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his eyes to the sky.

The crimson sunset seemed to split the heavens in two, laying bare a scarlet wound.

Gilbert swallowed slowly and let out a measured breath.

It reminded him of another dreadful part of the ritual.

Like the sky above him, his own neck would soon blossom crimson beneath the dagger's edge.

Nearly a month passed in preparations.

The guard had yet to return, and the waiting was driving Gilbert to the brink of madness. With each passing day, the weight of his decision grew heavier, threatening to suffocate him. Deep down, he even found himself hoping the guard would arrive too late, or never return at all.

More than once, Gilbert awoke in the dead of night drenched in cold sweat from the same nightmare: first he killed the infant, and then his closest friend.

A chill ran down his spine.

Gilbert gave his head a sharp shake, driving the vision away, and set out on a walk with Nikolas, if only to avoid being left alone with his own thoughts.

Gilbert met Nikolas by the stables, and the two decided to ride through the countryside surrounding the castle.

“Only a week left. I hear my fiancée is beautiful.”

Seated comfortably in the saddle, Nikolas spoke of his engagement with little enthusiasm. Gilbert listened with only half an ear.

“Apparently, she sings beautifully as well.”

“Mm.”

His mind was elsewhere, silently counting everything he had already completed and everything that still remained to be done.

“And she brews excellent ale.”

Nikolas arched a brow. He had simply said the first thing that came into his head, testing whether Gilbert was listening at all.

“Mm.”

“And what a magnificent beard she has.”

“Mm.”

The young aristocrat reined in his horse and folded his arms across his chest.

“You could at least pretend you're listening. Am I talking to a wall?” he huffed, his brows knitting together as he sulked like a child.

Gilbert finally looked up.

“I am listening. You were saying something about a beard? It would suit you. You already look enough like a girl.”

He brought his own horse to a halt, his thoughts finally catching up with the conversation.

Nikolas nearly flushed with indignation. As he whipped his head around, the small golden earring in his ear gave a faint, pitiful jingle.

“Look who's talking, Lord Forever-Lost-in-Thought. I only hope you're distracted so often because you're thinking about me.”

His irritation melted into a velvet-soft, teasing tone almost instantly.

Nikolas never ceased to amaze him with the ease with which he could change emotions, drawing the faintest hint of a smile from Gilbert, even if the remark was bold enough to catch him slightly off guard.

“I don't have the time. You already take up far too much of my life.”

They both laughed.

For all his recklessness and carefree nature, the young aristocrat had a way of pulling Gilbert out of his own head, keeping him from sinking into apathy—or burying himself beneath the endless weight of his work.

Over the years they had grown close.

For Nikolas, that closeness had become something more than friendship. For Gilbert, it was something far more difficult to define—something familiar, almost like family.

The golden-haired aristocrat could always make him laugh and draw him out of his thoughts, yet he was just as capable of spending hours discussing philosophy. And he touched him far more often than most people would. Gilbert had always dismissed it as nothing more than one of Nikolas's peculiar habits.

Their comfortable silence was broken by a quiet, sorrowful sigh. Nikolas slipped down from his horse, walked over to an oak tree, and leaned against its trunk with his eyes closed. Gilbert followed suit, dismounted, and came to stand beside him.

“You know, Gilbert... I've never told you this, but... you mean a great deal to me.”

His pale, slender hands trembled ever so slightly. He clasped them together, hiding the trembling of his fingers.

“I only wish this ride didn't have to end.”

“Don't be so dramatic. Marriage isn't the end of the world.”

Gilbert's calm voice carried not the slightest trace of concern as it came from only a short distance away.

Violet eyes wandered across the sky, following the drifting clouds. The day was warm, and only a gentle breeze tousled their hair.

Nikolas suddenly pinned his friend against the oak and caught his lips in a fierce, desperate kiss, pouring into it every ounce of longing and every year of fear he had carried within him.

He knew that from now on he would see the man he loved less and less, until his wife demanded even more of his time. The thought was unbearable.

He took the risk. It happened without warning, all at once. There would never be another chance. For Gilbert, the kiss came as a complete shock. He neither returned it nor pulled away. Numbness and bewilderment seized him, leaving him incapable of the slightest response. Nikolas was the first to break away. Guilt flickered across his face as he looked aside.

“You didn't understand. You never did.”

He took a few slow steps away and lifted his eyes to the sky, as though searching for the words.

“You know... we grew up together. Do you remember when you broke Mother's favourite vase? I took the blame.”

He let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh.

Gilbert still stood by the tree as though rooted to the spot, listening in silence.

“I got used to sharing everything with you—the bad as well as the good.” His voice faltered. “I always hoped that one day you'd look at me the way you look at those ridiculous books of yours.”

Every word became harder to say. The lump in his throat made it difficult to breathe. When he had finished, Nikolas slowly turned to face him. Gilbert said nothing. His thoughts scattered in every direction.

Memory after memory flared before him—childhood, laughter, quarrels, countless little moments he had never thought worth remembering.

The pieces slowly fell into place. Confusion gave way to the truth. The very truth he had failed to see for years. Or perhaps had simply refused to see.

For the briefest moment, understanding flickered in his cold eyes—as though, for the first time, he had seen something in the man before him that had always been there, yet was suddenly, unmistakably new. Tears blurred the golden-haired young man's vision. Nikolas turned away sharply, as though afraid that if he stayed another moment, he would say more.

“You're not saying anything? Fine... I understand.”

He swung himself onto his horse and rode off as quickly as he could—to forget, to escape, to run. Gilbert remained where he was.

Only once he was alone did Gilbert come to himself. He sat down on the grass and rubbed his temples. Then his fingers brushed his lips, where the trace of his childhood friend still lingered.

Strange. Never before had he questioned why Nikolas was always by his side.

Sleep never came that night. Gilbert tried to keep his thoughts on his goal, the ritual that mattered above all else. Yet his mind betrayed him, returning again and again to what had happened that day: golden hair, trembling lips, and the words spoken there beneath the silent witness to their secret. His thoughts swirled as understanding flooded his mind. He remembered the vase. The lost brooch. The trampled flowers. The frightened tutor.

To his family, Nikolas had always seemed like a troublesome guest, forever breaking or ruining something. Love had made him that way. In truth, he had never ruined anything at all. He had simply taken the blame. Protected him.

The bright sound of Nikolas's laughter echoed in his mind, so vividly it was almost real. Even those touches, when there had been no reason to touch him at all, finally made sense. Everything fell into place. The gears began to turn, opening his eyes not only to life, but to something beyond the endless pursuit of eternity through books and magic.

All this time, someone had loved him without ever asking for anything in return. He had never seen it.

But this was no time for such revelations. Before long, the most important moment of his life would arrive, the ritual. He might die. He might succeed. Only one thing was certain. His life would never be the same again.And it had to end the right way.

Gilbert did not understand what he was feeling. Such emotions were too complex for a heart blinded by forbidden knowledge. He wanted to understand them, to repay the warmth he had been shown. Perhaps these thoughts were wrong. Strange.

Nikolas was dear to him, in his own way, dear to him. And if he was destined to die, then at least he would do so without leaving behind guilt toward the one person who had always stood by his side.

Gilbert sat for a long time on the edge of his bed, alone in the darkness. His childhood friend loved him the way a man loves a woman. The thought felt both strange and strangely simple. But there were things more important than feelings. The ritual.

For the first couple of days, Gilbert did not cross paths with Nikolas. They had once had an uncanny habit of finding each other wherever they went, yet now there was no sign of him. For the first time, no one interrupted his thoughts or his work—and instead of relief, he felt only emptiness.

On the third day, they met in the gardens. Gilbert strode towards the gazebo, where Nikolas was talking with several other guests. Nikolas had noticed him long before he arrived, yet gave no sign of it and continued the conversation. Fragments of it drifted across the garden.

“I shall certainly drink to your wedding, Lord Nikolas,” one of the noblemen said, raising his goblet.

Nikolas feigned the same enthusiasm as everyone else.

The future duke approached the gathering and offered a brief greeting. Once the courtesies were exchanged, Nikolas fell silent. His expression grew more reserved.

“Good day, my lord.”

“Leave us.”

The words came without preamble, cold as a command. The nobles exchanged glances before quietly withdrawing, leaving the two of them alone.

Gilbert took the seat opposite him, breaking the easy, carefree atmosphere.

“Did you want to talk?” Nikolas asked without interest, studying his neatly kept fingernails instead of looking at him.

“Perhaps. How are the wedding preparations coming along?” Gilbert held his gaze.

Nikolas swallowed. It was the last thing he wanted to discuss, but he answered all the same. Lifting his eyes from his hands, he finally met Gilbert's gaze.

“They're coming along. And you... still buried in your books?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He gave a small nod, though it was impossible to tell whether it was meant for Gilbert or for his own thoughts.

“If you'll excuse me, I should go. My father was looking for me. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting.” With the faintest bow, Nikolas turned and walked away without waiting for a reply. Gilbert watched him go, every part of him taut with unspoken tension.

“You would have stayed before.”

Their next few encounters passed without conversation. Nikolas greeted him with a cool bow and made no attempt to speak. On the evening of the following day, Gilbert found him in the great hall, deep in conversation with several guests. Nikolas laughed easily, joked with them, and seemed much like his usual self. One of the men beside him laid a gentle hand on Nikolas's shoulder. Nikolas answered with a strained smile. Something had changed. Gilbert remembered that, in the past, his friend had never liked such gestures. He would always ease himself away from them. Now he did nothing. Strange. It had never troubled him before. Rather than interrupt their conversation, Gilbert chose to return to his work. Their last meeting had made one thing perfectly clear. Nikolas was not ready to speak to him.

Only a few days remained before the feast. Everything that had happened had filled his carefully planned life with doubt and complications. Gilbert left his chambers to clear his head with a walk through the castle. Before long, he found himself outside the abandoned chapel in the northern wing, nestled against the mountains. For reasons he could not explain, he stepped inside.

Beyond the creaking door, Nikolas was kneeling before the altar in prayer. Gilbert stepped inside quietly, but the worn wooden floor betrayed his presence at once. Nikolas turned immediately, surprise plain upon his face.

“My lord... I wasn't expecting you. If you wish to pray, I'll leave at once.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what.”

Gilbert let out a weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I'm sorry. I hurt you.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, my lord. I won't trouble you any longer. I should be getting back to the wedding preparations, if you'll excuse me.”

He rose to his feet, brushed the dust from his clothes, and headed for the door. Gilbert caught him by the wrist before he could leave.

“Nik. Stay.”

Nikolas froze. After a brief nod, he quietly took a seat on the neighbouring pew.

“Let's just forget about it. I simply had too much wine that day. It happens.”

“You didn't smell of wine.”

“Just... agree to it and... leave me be.”

Nikolas's voice faltered. Shaking his head, he strode out of the chapel, leaving the future duke alone.

Gilbert could not sleep again. His thoughts kept returning to everything that had happened, to the ritual that lay just ahead, to his friend's approaching wedding. Abruptly, he threw off the covers and rose from the bed. Taking a torch from the wall, he lit it and made his way to the guest wing, where Nikolas was staying.

His hand hesitated outside the door. After a moment's doubt, he knocked. The door did not open at once. When it finally did, a sleepy young man stood before him, his golden hair tousled, a nightshirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. The moment he recognised his visitor, he froze.

“Will you let me in?” Recovering himself, Nikolas silently stepped aside to let him enter.

“Gilbert? What brings you here?” he asked quietly as he closed the door behind them. Gilbert did not answer.

“It's cosy here. I couldn't sleep.”

“I thought you'd never come.”

“You never asked me to,” Gilbert replied matter-of-factly as he examined the little animal figurines arranged along the mantelpiece.

Silence settled between them. Without a word, Nikolas sat down on the bed, wrapping his arms around himself as he stole occasional glances at his unexpected visitor.

Meanwhile, Gilbert found a book buried beneath a layer of dust. Brushing a finger across the title, he smiled.

“You borrowed this from me about five years ago. Was it any good?”

“I simply decided to get rid of one of my rivals. I was terribly jealous of them.” At last, Nikolas gave up pretending. He no longer wanted to hide his pain behind cold indifference. Stretching out across the bed, he closed his eyes.

“I don't know why you came.”

“I was passing by and thought I'd stop in. I wanted to spend some time with you... one last time.”

Nikolas let out a bitter laugh.

“You said marriage wasn't a death sentence.”

“I did.” Setting the book aside, Gilbert sat down beside him and looked at his friend's peaceful face. In the moonlight, Nikolas looked more like an angel than ever. Gilbert's hand rose almost of its own accord, barely brushing the golden strands as he gently ran them through his fingers. He had never allowed himself such a gesture before. They felt as soft as the silk of his own finest clothes.

Nikolas opened his eyes, holding his breath.

“You look like an angel. Did you know that?”

Silence. Nikolas listened, utterly transfixed.

“I wasn't ready for what you told me.”

His hand slipped from Nikolas's hair to his cheek, tracing the line of his face before brushing softly across his lips. Gilbert leaned down with quiet care, almost afraid to startle him. Their lips met in a kiss that was gentle, almost hesitant. Nikolas froze for a heartbeat, as though unable to believe it was really happening, then slowly returned the kiss. The hands that had been tense only moments before came to rest lightly on Gilbert's shoulders. Beneath them, he could feel the young man's quiet trembling. Nikolas deepened the kiss with the quiet desperation of someone who had longed for it for years. Gilbert remained careful, exploring it the way he would one of his own books. When their lips finally parted, Nikolas whispered, afraid to disturb the fragile moment,

“Am I dreaming?”

“No.”

“Good.” Drawing a slow breath, he let his trembling fingertips drift across Gilbert's chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. Strange. He had always seemed like stone, and it felt almost unreal to discover that he, too, could be nervous. Nikolas leaned in for another kiss, this time with a little more certainty. Gilbert answered it. One hand gently intertwined their fingers, while the other came to rest against Nikolas's stomach, tracing the flat line of his abdomen with feather-light, hesitant touches.

“Stay with me. Please...” Nikolas whispered against his lips.

“I will.”

Nikolas let out a quiet breath and drew closer, as though afraid that everything would disappear the moment he let go.

Outside, the moon drifted slowly across the sky as night sheltered them from the rest of the world. For the first time, Gilbert forgot about his goal and the ritual, surrendering himself entirely to the moment.

At dawn, he quietly slipped out of bed and dressed. Nikolas was still asleep, his arms wrapped around a pillow. Gilbert looked at him one last time before leaving the room.

He stopped by the forge to collect the dagger. Outside his chambers, the guardsman caught up with him, a bundle cradled in his arms.

“My lord. Your...” He frowned, unable to find the right word. “...order.”

“Come in.”

Within the privacy of his chambers, the guardsman silently handed him the infant. Gilbert folded back the cloth covering the child's face. Something inside him faltered, and nausea rose in his throat. Tightening his grip around the dagger, he gave a silent nod. The guardsman's eyes drifted uneasily to the expressionless blade. His hands, which only moments before had been holding such a fragile life, trembled. Without another word, he withdrew. Gilbert carefully laid the child upon his bed. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes. His eyelids trembled, his heart pounded against his ribs, and his hand clenched the dagger until it hurt. Drawing a deep breath, the mage looked once more at the bundle, then stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him.

Nikolas awoke some time later. The empty half of the bed caught his eye at once, and an uneasy tightness gripped his heart. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether everything that had happened had been nothing more than a dream. The rumpled sheets and the clothes scattered across the room quickly swept the thought away, it had all been real.

Today was the day of his wedding. Yet the young aristocrat could not have cared less. There was only one thing he wanted—to see once more the man with whom he had spent the night. But Gilbert was nowhere to be found.

Nikolas searched almost the entire castle. He looked in the inner courtyard, the stables, and the gardens.

Nothing.

Time pressed relentlessly on. Day gave way to evening, and before long the feast would begin.

Despair drew him towards the old chapel. The very one where he had prayed not long ago.

He wanted to run. To disappear. To call everything off.

“I can't...” he murmured under his breath.

The chapel door refused to yield at first. With every shove, the unease inside him grew stronger, as though something deep within was warning him to stop. At last, the door gave way with a long creak.

His world collapsed.

Nikolas screamed. His hands flew to his face, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor. Gilbert lay motionless at the centre of the chapel, his throat cut. Crawling towards him, Nikolas gently lifted his friend's head into his lap.

The tears came at once.

“No... no... no...”

He shook Gilbert by the shoulders, still hoping against hope to bring him back. Everything around him looked wrong. Unfamiliar symbols had been drawn across the stone floor in thick blood. Off to one side lay a book bound in black leather. Beside it rested a bloodstained dagger. Along the edge of the magic circle lay the body of an infant, wrapped in blood-soaked swaddling cloth.

Breathing became harder and harder.

“You can't leave me...” Nikolas whispered through his tears. Then he noticed the infant's body and began to shake even more violently. “God... what have you done?..”

His cry soon brought the guards running, followed by the duke's family. Lady von Flavius carefully picked up the book.

A neatly folded sheet of parchment fell from its pages.

She unfolded it.

“Mother,

If you are reading this letter, I am most likely dead.

Do not blame anyone for what has happened, especially Uncle. I am grateful that I learned this art and chose this path of my own free will.

Forgive the shame I have brought upon our family. I have no doubt there will be rumours.

Take the book lying beside me.

It must pass into your hands, and yours alone, Mother.

Then give it to my sister's children. Let it remain in our family, passed down from one generation to the next.

Within its pages are my life's work and my spells.

It is dangerous, Mother. Warn them. Retribution will befall anyone who ignores my words or lacks the strength to heed them.

Your son.”