"Between fragile alliances and hidden rivalries, every word is a blade, every gesture a move on the invisible board of power."
———————————————————
Elise had left Elian under the care of the mage Iolanda, envoy of the Dark Throne. She was the one who had brought the black robes and the cold metal seal that, from that day on, would identify him as belonging to the order.
But that did not mean he was yet a full member. The true initiation still lay ahead, set for the moment he turned twelve — the age at which children were admitted into the Arcane University, sustained and governed by the three great orders.
Beyond these, there were also the lesser orders, scattered like shadows in search of prestige. They were called intermediaries, a polished way of disguising the obvious: they housed those who could find no place among the higher circles. Still, they maintained their own universities, many aimed at commoners, offering a modest flame to those who would never touch the embers of true power.
Yet let us turn away from that side path. The essential thing was this: Elian was not yet initiated, but already walked under the direct protection of one of the eleven elders of the Dark Throne.
Eleven. Always eleven. Since the gradual dissolution of the ancient Tower of Wisdom, every order that arose carried that number as an inevitable inheritance. Eleven was more than convention: it meant balance between forces, a guarantee of decision in times of dissent. An odd number that would never allow stalemate. A number that, above all, whispered the omen of greater power — Mastery, Illumination, dominion over that which does not belong to common men.
Elise walked in silence through the wide corridor of the hotel where they had spent the night. The place was luxurious, reminiscent of the halls of the Arcane Council, though lacking its sacred radiance. The walls were adorned with portraits of historical figures, among them King Edward Elveron, founder of the realm, whose painted eyes seemed to follow those who passed. Small side tables held vases of fresh flowers, fair but not as exuberant as those that ornamented the Council. The air was filled with the faint perfume of petals mixed with the polish of varnished wood, carrying a ceremonial tone that masked, beneath its beauty, a distant coldness.
At her side walked Lysander, and it took but a glance to see the dissatisfaction consuming his face. The name "Dark Throne" seemed a burden upon his tongue, something he would rather never utter. The orders appeared united before the people and the law, but Elise knew: beneath the masks, intrigues, rivalries, and hatreds burned in silence.
"Elise, how can you allow your apprentice to join that… filth?" said Lysander, the word spat like venom, without courage to even name the rival order.
Elise did not answer at once. She kept walking, her footsteps striking firm against the polished floor. It was not her nature to feed empty arguments, much less with someone who spoke so drenched in prejudice. She remained neutral toward the orders, with no idols and no demons.
But Lysander could not endure silence.
"You should have guided him to join our order," he pressed, his voice steeped in reproach.
She turned her gaze slightly toward him, her eyes cold.
"Lysander, you weren't present at yesterday's conference, were you?" she asked, her voice calm, but sharp as a blade.
"No," he admitted, impatience in his tone. "But I was told. They said the boy can conjure combined magic without even reciting. Do you understand what that means? For us, it would be a blessing. It would bring recognition, influence… something the Tower of Wisdom deserves."
Elise knew that, in that point, he spoke truth. The three great orders sustained themselves in fragile balance — equal in power and prestige, yet always vigilant to prevent any one from rising above the others. A talent such as Elian's, if cultivated by the Tower of Wisdom, could indeed tilt the scales. Even though the boy's future remained uncertain, the mere possibility was reason enough for covetousness.
But Elise, weary of his persistence, cut the matter short with an unexpected question:
"You have a daughter, don't you, Lysander?"
The mage arched his brows, caught off guard.
"Yes," he replied, the hardness in his voice softening into pride.
"She's six years old now, isn't she?" Elise asked, glancing at him sideways.
"Seven," he corrected, warmth in his tone. "She turned two months ago. I'm already preparing her to enter the Tower of Wisdom, as it should be. The same you should have done with your apprentice."
Elise said nothing at once. She only moved on, the light of the torches reflecting in her emerald eyes. In silence, she made it clear that her loyalty lay not with orders, but with something deeper. Lysander, however, was blind to it — still chained to politics, unable to grasp that there were paths unbent by any institution.
Before they could cross the great doors of the lavish inn, Elise saw in his eyes that his persistence would not cease. At every step, his words seemed ready to leap from his mouth, venom waiting to be spilled. Not wishing to prolong a fruitless quarrel, she stopped a few paces before the exit, turned to face him, and spoke with the coldness of one whose patience had worn thin.
"Lysander, of course I wanted him to be a member of the Tower of Wisdom," she said, her tone firm, glacial. "But the choice was his, not mine."
The mage cut her off.
"You should have insisted!" he retorted, his voice dripping with disdain. "You should have made him see which path is right, and not let him join an order that is nothing more than a reflection of war and destruction. The Dark Throne…" He spat the name almost with disgust.
Elise's green eyes, sharp as glass blades, narrowed.
"Lysander, I barely had time to train the boy." Her voice cut the air like polished steel. "I've been his mentor for less than two months. You speak of choices and right paths, but you know nothing of his story."
Silence fell for an instant. Only the sound of the wind's chains slipping through the open door filled the hall, bringing with it Askov's chill. The entrance gleamed beneath imposing chandeliers, and on the ceiling the symbols of the three great orders entwined around the crown's crest, a reminder that here, forces stood in balance — if only in appearance.
Elise lifted her face, gazing at the painted symbols, and when she spoke again, her voice bore a darker weight:
"Elian has already killed two boys, Lysander." A shadow of sorrow flickered across her eyes. "He did it to protect his sister. Tell me… do you know what it means to kill someone at five years of age?"
The question fell like a sentence. Lysander turned his eyes aside, unsettled.
"No… I don't," he admitted, curt, as if the confession itself were a wound. "But that is no reason for him to—"
"Exactly." Elise cut him off, her voice steady. "It is no reason. But there is something beyond it, a much greater truth that explains both his choice and Marduk's decision to accept him."
She released a long sigh, as if letting slip the burden pressing on her chest.
"He has overcome the first tunnel of the Qliphoth," she said, each word heavy with gravity. "I bet no one told you that, did they?"
Lysander stood frozen for several seconds, then merely shook his head, confirming in silence. The reproach once etched on his face gave way to a restrained unease, as though that revelation had shaken his faith in his own arguments.
Elise seized his silence to end the matter:
"Now you understand the reason. That is why he asked to join the Dark Throne, and why Elder Marduk accepted him so early, placing him under his direct protection." She paused briefly, then concluded with a cold voice: "Let us end this discussion. Azemir is waiting for us."
Without further words, they crossed the main door and stepped into the icy streets of Askov. The neutral city roared with the common life of its people, indifferent to the weight of the revelation Lysander now carried. Together, they made their way toward the branch of the Tower of Wisdom, where Elder Azemir awaited.