The council chamber emptied slowly. Murmured prayers, curt salutes, veiled threats—Zachrius endured them all with the same frigid calm. Only once the last of them had vanished through the arched doorway did he release a quiet sigh and wave his hand.
The golden sigils inlaid into the walls dimmed, and the Tower silenced itself. The low hum of magic slowly beginning to fade.
He did not linger. He would not linger; The title of Archmage had cost him so much already.
Zachrius began to make his way down the curved stairway behind the dais, boots clicking lightly against polished stone. Downward he moved, through layers of magical shielding, past wards that could hold back armies. None slowed him for he was the master of this tower.
This was the Archmage's Sanctum—a space no guard patrolled, no bishop dared enter. The great warded door recognized his mana alone. After a brief scan of his unique mana signature the grand door swung open with a resonant chime.
Inside, the grandeur of the Mage Tower gave way to the Archmages lab and study quarters. Many shelves lined the walls, shelves full of spell tomes. From forbidden magic of ancients past to the newest magic theories of the Mage College. Along with many magic items such as scrying mirrors, a sprawling orrery tracking ley lines and celestial alignments. Astral projection stations. An alchemical garden of the rarest ingredients. Even the walls of stone were more than the eye could see for it was actually refined mana stone. A much younger Zachrius, one who had not lost too much had spent many weeks holed up here only to be dragged out by Allison.
He moved past it all. Past his observatory. Past his laboratories.
Into his private quarters.
The chamber within was bare by noble standards—marble floor, deep violet curtains, a single wide desk covered in half-finished missives. In the far corner, a basin of starlight-fed water shimmered, its surface unnaturally still.
He approached and looked down.
The vision spell ignited without a word.
Across the basin's surface bloomed a ghostly image—rolling hills cloaked in shadow, the borders of Necrovia blurred by haze and death. Far in the distance, black spires reached toward storm-laced skies.
The Lich King's domain.
Zachrius stared for a long moment. Then he muttered, almost to himself, "So you are alive."
Not a question. Nor surprise. A quiet confirmation of a truth long feared—and secretly, hopelessly desired.
A soft chime rang from the desk.
A scroll appeared before Zachrius seemingly from thin air and begun to unroll itself. Letters etched across the parchment in real time—a cipher from a tower aide.
New inquiries from the Golden Houses. Duke Mercion asks again if the child is yours. He is not the only one. They are preparing motions for custody under ancient rite.
Zachrius didn't react at first.
Then, slowly, he loosened the clasps at his collar. He set aside the heavy mantle of his title, letting it fall across the back of a nearby chair.
Without it, he looked… older. Less a symbol of empire. More a man full of regret.
He approached the window overlooking the city of Magus. Spires spiraled in graceful harmony, mage-lights flitting between their peaks like stars caught mid-flight.
The city was beautiful—flawless in its symmetry.
Yet Zachrius's gaze drifted far beyond it.
To the north.
To Necrovia.
To her.
To him.
Alice's face rose unbidden—those fearless eyes, that fire-touched smile. She had never begged, not once. Even when she made the trade. Her soul for the child's life.
"I warned you," he whispered. "You never listened."
And the child… gods, he looked like him.
Reports were scarce. Sightings fleeting. It was a fools task trying to get any information from the undead of Necrovia..But even the most distorted illusions couldn't erase the truth.
Violet eyes. White hair.
Their child lives.
He rubbed his temples.
They knew. The Golden Houses. The High Families. Whispers had circulated ever since Alice vanished five years ago. Her open defiance had outraged half the court. But they'd tolerated her—for him. For what they assumed would become a powerful political heir.
Now, with the prophecy out…
They didn't see a threat.
They saw a prize.
They want to take him.
Shape him. Own him. Or kill him, if they must.
He turned from the window.
"No," he said aloud. "You will not have him."
Not Avalon.
Not the Holy Kingdom.
Not even Magus.
His fingers moved in practiced gestures. A concealed drawer opened from the floor. From it, he lifted an ancient, rune-carved orb—smooth obsidian, etched with latticework veins of star-metal.
A forgotten scrying device. The tower had many secrets and relics left behind from previous Archmages afterall.
He hesitated—only once.
Then he activated it.
Mana swirled, and through the shadows came a whispering connection—to one of his remaining agents buried deep in Necrovia. Risky. Illegal. Untraceable.
A flickering voice came through.
"…My lord?"
Zachrius lowered his voice. "Tell me everything. I don't care how small. Every movement, every flicker of power. I want to know who guards him. I want to know how strong he is. I want to know what the Lich King intends."
A pause. Then, hesitantly:
"…And if the boy is just… living?"
Zachrius's voice chilled.
"Then we make sure he stays that way."