The door to the Archmage's chambers boomed shut, the sound final and absolute. Kaen leaned against the cold, unyielding wood, his entire body trembling with post-banquet adrenaline. He had survived. He felt less like a victorious king and more like a stage actor who had just walked off after a three-hour improvisational play where half the audience was secretly holding knives.
He shrugged off his heavy robes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap of shadow-silk and smoldering thread. Mimic detached itself with a sigh, floating in the air before him.
"Well," Kaen said, his voice raspy, "on a scale of one to 'imminent, painful death,' how did I do?"
"Your monologue about drowning in poison was a touch on the nose, but the raw, emotional vulnerability played surprisingly well with the heroine," Mimic critiqued, swirling like a puff of sentient smoke. "She now believes you are a tortured soul seeking redemption. It's horribly cliché, but effective. As for Lady Nyx… you survived her test. She now thinks you're not the man she knew, which is both true and the most dangerous possible conclusion she could have reached."
"So, a resounding success," Kaen muttered, running a hand through his silver hair. He felt the phantom chill of Nyx's whisper, the weight of Seris's conflicted gaze. He was juggling daggers, and the daggers were falling in love with him while simultaneously trying to figure out if he was real.
Before he could spiral further, a soft, polite knock echoed from the door. Kaen froze. Mimic instantly flattened itself against the wall, its glowing eyes narrowing.
"Enter," Kaen called out, his voice betraying none of the fresh panic flooding his system.
The same nervous servant from earlier entered, carrying a single, ornate object on a velvet cushion. It was a botanical sculpture of sorts. A single, pearlescent flower, its petals seemingly carved from solidified moonlight, was potted in a base of polished obsidian. The flower pulsed with a soft, internal light, and the air around it was cool and smelled of night-blooming jasmine and something else… something that reminded Kaen of the quiet of a deep, undisturbed lake.
"A gift, Your Majesty," the servant stammered, bowing low. "From an admirer, to… to celebrate your profound new philosophy."
"An admirer," Kaen repeated, his eyes fixed on the flower. In his old life, an anonymous gift was usually a fruit basket. Here, it felt like a ticking bomb. "Leave it."
The servant placed the object on a low table, bowed again, and scurried out of the room as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Kaen stared at the gift, the silence stretching taut between him and the cloak.
"Okay," Kaen said slowly. "That's a trap, right? It has to be a trap."
"Oh, absolutely," Mimic confirmed, drifting over to circle the flower. "It's drenched in magic. Not the loud, flashy Pyreth kind, but something much more subtle. Vireth, the Thread of Flow. The magic of water, memory, and calm. This isn't a bomb, darling. It's poison for the soul."
Kaen approached cautiously. The flower was beautiful, its gentle light soothing. He felt an inexplicable urge to touch it, to feel the cool, smooth petals against his skin. It promised peace, clarity. For a man whose mind was a raging storm of anxiety and stolen memories, that promise was dangerously seductive.
"So what does it do?" Kaen asked, forcing himself to stay a few feet away.
"I'm not certain," Mimic admitted, a rare note of consternation in its voice. "The weave is complex, layered. It's designed to resonate with its target. A conventional spell has a trigger. This… this is a lure. It seems to be keyed to… emotion."
Resonance. The core of this world's magic. It wasn't just about willpower; it was about who you were. Rael Ithos, the true Archmage King, was a being of supreme, unshakable will and cold, calculating intellect. His emotional resonance would have been a flat, calm ocean of absolute control.
"What would have happened if Rael were here?" Kaen thought aloud, piecing it together.
Mimic followed his logic instantly. "The Master's emotional control was… absolute. He would have felt the spell's pull, deemed it pathetic, and its magic would have found no purchase. It would have been like trying to drown a fish. The spell would have done nothing to him."
"But I'm not him," Kaen whispered. "My mind is a mess. I'm anxious, scared, constantly on the verge of a panic attack."
"Your emotional resonance isn't a calm ocean, darling," Mimic finished grimly. "It's a tempest in a teapot. If you touch this, or even stay near it for too long, the spell will seep into you. It will promise you calm, clarity. It will dull your senses, slow your thoughts, make you… compliant. You wouldn't die. You'd become a living doll, a serene, empty vessel sitting on the throne while your 'admirer' pulls the strings. A quiet, elegant assassination of the mind."
A chill that had nothing to do with the flower's cool aura washed over Kaen. It was a perfect trap, designed specifically for a powerful tyrant, but lethally effective against the powerless fraud pretending to be him. Whoever sent this was clever. They hadn't tested his power; they had assumed it and used it as part of the weapon's design.
He could smash it. Hurl it against the wall and be done with it. But that would be a reaction. That's what the assassin would expect. They would simply try again, with something else. He was tired of reacting. He was tired of being the mouse. It was time to play the cat. A new, terrifying thought began to form in his mind, a bluff so audacious it made his declaration of war on himself seem tame.
"Mimic," he said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. It was Rael's smile, the one he'd seen in the mirror, and it felt unnervingly natural. "I think it's time I took your advice. It's time for some drama."
A few minutes later, Commander Drevan Holt was summoned back to the king's chambers. He entered to find a scene of profound contemplation. The Archmage King stood before the glowing flower, his hands clasped behind his back, an expression of thoughtful analysis on his face.
"Your Majesty, you summoned me?" Drevan asked, his eyes immediately drawn to the strange plant.
"I did, Commander," Kaen said, his voice a low, commanding purr. He gestured at the flower. "A gift. From an anonymous admirer."
Drevan's eyes narrowed. "Is it a threat?"
"Oh, it is a threat," Kaen confirmed with a soft chuckle. "But not to me." He paused, letting the silence hang in the air before continuing. "This is a fascinating piece of spell-craft. A curse woven from the Vireth Thread. It is designed to resonate with a person's emotional state. To a lesser man, a man plagued by fear or doubt, it would be a slow-acting poison, turning his mind to placid jelly."
Drevan's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "I will have the mages of the court dissect it at once!"
"No," Kaen said, holding up a hand. The word was sharp, absolute. He turned to face Drevan, his eyes holding a look of piercing, almost pitying intelligence. "You misunderstand, old friend. The curse is real. But the gift… the gift is from me."
Drevan blinked, his stony expression faltering in confusion. "My… king?"
"I have grown weary of the whispers in my court," Kaen explained, beginning to pace. "The vipers in the garden. The loyalties that are merely masks for ambition. So, I commissioned this little flower. A 'loyalty test,' if you will. I sent it to myself, anonymously, to see how my court would react. Who would look guilty? Who would be foolish enough to send such a thing in the first place, hoping to curry my favor?"
He was spinning a web of lies so thick he was getting lost in it himself, but he pushed forward, fueled by the sheer, exhilarating terror of the gamble.
"This flower, Commander, is a mirror. To me, it is a harmless, pretty bauble. But to the traitor who originally conceived of such a pathetic, cowardly attack, it must seem as though their own design has been turned against them. They must be wondering if I know. They must be terrified."
Commander Drevan stared, his mind visibly working to process the layers of deception. The king had not only detected the curse, but he was claiming to have invented it himself as a way to smoke out a traitor. It was a move of such breathtaking, manipulative genius that Drevan felt a fresh wave of awe wash over him. This was not the brute force of the old Rael. This was the cunning of a master strategist.
"What are your orders, Your Majesty?" Drevan asked, his voice filled with renewed conviction.
"You will take this flower," Kaen commanded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You will have it placed in the center of the Grand Hall, under guard. Announce that the King has received a gift of 'great significance' and that he is… 'evaluating' its meaning. Then, you and I will watch. We will watch the faces of my court. We will see who flinches. We will see who cannot meet my gaze. The viper will expose itself."
He placed a hand on Drevan's shoulder, his expression turning grim. "The war on the self begins with purging the treason within our own walls, Commander. This is the first battle."
Drevan Holt's eyes burned with righteous fire. He bowed deeply, his loyalty cemented more strongly than ever before. "It will be done, my king. I will not fail you."
He took the flower, handling it as if it were both a sacred relic and a live viper, and marched from the room, a man on a holy mission.
Kaen waited until the sound of Drevan's footsteps faded before his knees gave out. He collapsed into the nearest chair, his body shaking with the sheer, unadulterated terror of his own bluff. He had survived. More than that, he had taken a direct attack on his life and turned it into a political purge. He hadn't just dodged a bullet; he had convinced everyone he had designed the gun himself as a test of faith.
Mimic floated down from the ceiling, its embroidered mouth twisted in what looked like a standing ovation.
"Bravo, darling. Bravo," the cloak whispered, its voice filled with genuine admiration. "That wasn't the performance of a stage actor. That was the performance of a king."
Kaen looked at his own trembling hands. He had come to this world powerless. But as he sat there, in the dead man's room, having just signed a political death warrant with nothing but a web of lies, he began to understand a terrifying new truth about this world.
Magic could kill your body. But a good lie? A good lie could destroy your soul. And he was getting frighteningly good at it.