Nicholas was ambitious. Every decision he made was driven by his relentless desire to succeed. Nothing in his life held as much value as power over others and the sweet, intoxicating recognition that came with it. Everything else — relationships, morality, humanity — were merely tools for him to fulfill his ambitions. The worst part was that he realized his best years were slipping away through his fingers like sand, and he had achieved nothing.
He was furious. He had just returned from a royal council meeting, and if he had allowed even a small outburst of his true feelings, his entire study would have gone up in flames. But Nicholas considered such displays a weakness, so instead of letting his anger consume his study, it only scorched his soul.
Bunch of hypocrites!
Once again, he had been forced to stand, humiliated, amongst the servants - not seated at the table with the council members, but on the sidelines! The king had deliberately left no seat for him at the table, and the final blow to his pride was the smug grin on Sepp's face, that self-satisfied ass, who had mocked him the entire time. For hours, Nicholas had stood there, breathing in the mix of perfume masking the stench of sweat and piss, completely ignored. No one cared about his opinion. Only at the end was he dismissed with a wave of indifference.
Scum! One day, I will-!
Nicholas took a deep breath and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. Though he didn't want to admit it, he was exhausted, tired. For so long, he had schemed, manipulated, betrayed, even bribed his way into becoming the warlocks' representative on the council—and what had it earned him? Sore feet and wounded pride.
His eyes fell on a worn, ragged notebook, peeking out from beneath the pile of scrolls. He picked it up, turning it absentmindedly in his fingers. He recalled how that little girl had desperately tried to protect this dirty booklet. Some kind of heirloom? he had thought at the time. He had picked it up off the tavern floor without thinking, then laughed at himself and tossed it onto the table amid the other papers. He never read it — had completely forgotten about it. It wasn’t worth his attention, after all, the girl was bound to die anyway.
Four times a year, they would purchase orphans, starved and sickly children as new apprentices. The situation had grown worse in recent years. They were so desperate, they’d started taking the crippled ones, kids who didn’t stand a chance. There were fewer and fewer warlocks, and those who had fallen into addiction made matters worse. They would sit together in dark cellars, drinking belladonna mead — a drink originally meant to train the mind before a first demonic pact. It was brewed with a special concoction of herbs, including belladonna and wormwood, and more and more warlocks began abusing it, drinking even after their pacts were sealed.
Nicholas blamed the king. If they weren’t confined to this damp underground, but instead enjoyed their power over the world outside, they wouldn’t feel the need to escape into hallucinations. They could have already dominated all the Elders! But that ridiculous figure on the throne was a cowardly old man, frightened of his own shadow. That’s why he left the warlocks — his mightiest allies — rotting in these catacombs like the lowest of the low.
But disobeying the king meant death thanks to the blood bond, a safeguard the Elders had put in place ages ago with their magic. How much Nicholas hated the Elders for their smug superiority! He blamed them too for wasting his life among lost souls who barely resembled the once-proud warlocks.
He called them "the Seekers," searching for some impossible enlightenment they would never find. With vacant eyes, they mumbled incoherently, trembling with fever. In their moments of euphoria, they transformed into dangerous beasts, drunk on power. But when the high wore off, they were left as shattered husks, their minds lost, their lives consumed by the very demons they sought to control. Sometimes, a warlock would take his own life in a final flicker of free will — but most of them faded into nothingness. Their minds broke, leaving only empty shells staring into the void. Nicholas had seen several of these — puppets that occasionally twitched, speaking forgotten languages. But it wasn’t human who spoke through their mouths.
In this state, the most merciful thing was to burn the body, otherwise, it died very slowly. Nicholas wasn’t even sure if a body possessed by demons could truly die. He had heard stories from older warlocks about necromancy experiments conducted on such remains — long ago, deep within the lower levels of the catacombs, which were now collapsed and inaccessible.
The belladonna mead, the scorn of the royal council, the king’s indifference, the weak and useless apprentices — all of it caused the number of warlocks to dwindle, along with their status. And now, here he sat, angry and weary, dark thoughts swirling in his head as he stared at the crazy girl’s notebook. What else could she have been but a mad wildling?
Just two days after the children were taken in, the first of them died. Normally, Nicholas wouldn’t have cared, except for the rumors that spread about the child in the neighboring bunk, a child who had caused quite a stir with a small incident.
A minor incident, he thought with a grim chuckle.
Most children crawled in the dust before the masters, broken by fear, and those who didn’t died quickly. But this girl was different. She did something that caught everyone’s attention. She bit Langar?
A rabid, mad animal!
Animals — that’s what all the children were to him. Perhaps not even that—more like tools, toys that broke long before they were worth noticing. But this child? She wasn’t just a desperate, whimpering animal. She attacked. Apparently, they were about to drag a corpse in a sack to be burned when the furious child pounced on them, fighting. They had to knock her out to stop her. After that, she never spoke again. They saw her at meals with the other children, but then she’d disappear somewhere in the corridors. Like a rat.
Nicholas allowed himself a moment to wonder what might become of her if she survived. He quickly pushed the thought aside, shaking his head. Even if she managed to control the imp and complete the initiation, voices were already calling for her to be dealt with. A child that wandered where it pleased, didn’t attend lessons, and disrespected her superiors? Unthinkable! The loudest of these voices, of course, belonged to Langar, who couldn’t swallow his humiliation.
With a bitter smile, Nicholas pushed the filthy notebook back among the other documents and leaned back in his chair.
She’ll probably be the next one dragged to the pyre, he thought, dismissing her from his mind.
He was wrong. In the end, she was one of only two children left alive. The rest had fallen to the fever, and one had tried to escape — only for his body to be found deep in the labyrinth, gnawed by rats. No matter what they did, they could never rid the catacombs of those vermin.
That morning, Nicholas expected them to carry her off for burning as well. The day before, he had encountered her in the hallway — she didn’t look well. Barefoot, her eyes were feverish, her lips blue, and her breath ragged. He didn’t give her much chance of surviving the night. She had fled before he could say anything. So, as he walked toward her cell, he merely wanted to confirm his expectations—she was too weak to survive.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
And yet, when he pulled back the curtain to her bunk, the heat hit him in the face like a wave. She sat on the bed, an imp spinning furiously inside its sphere, radiating warmth.
Nicholas stepped back. He stared at the girl, confused thoughts swirling in his head.
She should have been dead!
He frowned at her, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and bewilderment as he barked at her.
"How did you do that?"
She lifted her swollen, tear-streaked eyes, the red glow of the imp’s sphere reflected in them. It was clear she had spent part of the night crying. "I insulted him."
She insulted him?
He stood in silence for a moment before realizing what she had said. He laughed, though his laughter was sharp and derisive. Insulted him — such absurdity. Imps, though the lowest of demons, were creatures of pure malice. Such a thing should have been impossible.
How could an ordinary girl insult something that knew no mercy and had no soul?
His laughter died down, but Nicholas’s lips still curled into a smile—at least, his mouth resembled a smile, though his eyes were cold.
"Your task was to control him. To gain his obedience. And instead, you… you simply failed." His voice dripped with icy mockery. "Insulting a demon isn’t an accomplishment."
The girl lifted her head defiantly, frowning at him.
"What did you say to him?"
She hesitated.
"Nothing. It was… an accident."
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, and the girl looked away, biting her lip.
Liar, he thought. What did she say that she didn’t want to admit?
He looked at her more closely. She was a scruffy, disheveled bird, clearly struggling with fever. Only the warmth of the imp’s sphere had saved her from certain death during the night. And yet, despite her weakness, she stood there, defiant. Her defiance both disgusted and intrigued him.
Could she surprise me again?
He chuckled to himself. By the rules, he shouldn’t intervene, but what if he gave her a small push, guided her just a little? It went against the unspoken principles.
A weak mind quickly crumbled under the influence of demons; only those with the strongest will could achieve anything. Guiding children through the imp’s trial was forbidden because dealing with a half-mad warlock was far worse than cleaning up a few bodies. But what if…? Her survival would be his success. All thanks to him.
"If you want to control him, you need to be able to sense his essence. The fastest way is to learn how to leave your body with your mind. Then you’ll sense it quickly."
With that, he let the curtain fall and left.
But she didn’t learn. She failed. And though he had anticipated it, her failure irritated him. The others had given up on her — when they came to her cell a few days later, she was gone. Her blanket and the imp’s sphere were missing.
She was hiding in the labyrinth of underground corridors, and since no one wanted to waste energy on one insignificant child, they eventually left her alone. They stopped paying attention to her, though she was occasionally spotted dashing for food before vanishing into the halls, dirty and wild-eyed. She looked like a feral creature retreating into the shadows.
But Nicholas hadn’t forgotten her.
The last child — a boy — had survived, managing to control his imp the very next night. Nicholas wondered if it was mere coincidence, or if the wild girl had helped him. He was sure only several months later — when during the next rites, more than half of the new children survived. Far too many for it to be mere chance.
How dare she?!
He felt betrayed, and her audacity in breaking the rules made his blood boil. He was angry not only at her but also at himself for having shown her the way.
If I ever get my hands on her…!
But she eluded him, and he had so much other work that even searching the labyrinth of tunnels would be a waste of precious time. Days turned into weeks, and his anger dulled, sinking into the depths of his mind. He didn’t want to keep raging over such an insignificant child. She wasn’t worth his attention — though a small flicker of rage still stirred every time he thought of her.
He came across her again when early spring came to Rovisk. He was returning, tired, from a night of negotiations and arguments, making his way back to the Rat's Nest. It was early morning, that moment when the birds timidly begin to sing, though no trace of the sun’s first rays could yet be seen in the sky. The tavern's fire was still burning, and a few oil lamps flickered softly as the innkeeper eyed him with a piercing gaze. Nicholas couldn’t resist a disdainful smirk as he passed by silently, heading for the hidden corridor - when he saw her. She stood behind the tapestry, leaning against the wall, watching the innkeeper through a gap.
"You think you’ll escape this way? Foolish girl."
She frowned but didn’t take her eyes off the innkeeper.
"Is he human?"
Nicholas shook his head. "Homunculus."
The girl looked at him, curiosity gleaming in her eyes, and for a moment, Nicholas felt a chill.
He saw in her a reflection of himself — a hunger, a thirst for knowledge, an insatiable desire... In that instant, he forgot all his anger.
"What’s a homunculus?"
He found himself answering without hesitation. "A creature made through alchemy and magic. One of the kings had the Elders make him long ago, to keep watch over the warlocks."
"Did someone want to harm the warlocks?"
Nicholas burst out laughing. "No! It watches us to make sure no one under the influence of mead leaves the catacombs. It protects the people from us."
She frowned even more, which amused him so much that, in a fit of generosity, he gestured to her with a wave of his hand.
"Come with me."
She didn’t move. Nicholas shrugged and walked away, tossing over his shoulder, "I have something that belongs to you."
He didn’t need to look back to know he had lured her. He sensed, rather than heard, her small, quiet footsteps on the stone floor.
When they entered his study, Nicholas lit the lamps with with a few gestures. The room was low-ceilinged, filled with the stale scent of damp stone and burned incense, which the narrow ventilation shaft couldn’t fully dispel. The walls were lined with shelves filled with carefully arranged books and the strangest objects. Each item, each trinket, had its exact place. Only his desk, covered in a mess of scrolls and papers he didn’t have time to sort, was in disarray. From the heap, he fished out a small, tattered booklet and tossed it at the girl.
She caught it quickly, clutching it tightly in her fingers. Her disbelieving gaze flickered between Nicholas and the notebook. She mumbled something that sounded like a thanks.
He watched the pale knuckles of her fingers, gripping the book tightly, and smirked. "That thing seems to mean a lot to you."
"It’s my diary."
For a moment, Nicholas’s sneer froze. "You can read and write?"
A new curiosity sparked within him. Every apprentice who survived their first trial was required to learn to read and write, but it was a slow and painful process. If she already had this skill, then she had value. Even if she hadn’t mastered the imp, he could use her for something else.
He grabbed one of the scrolls and unrolled it. "Prove it."
He watched closely as she frowned and began to read. She could indeed read—haltingly, but fluently. Nicholas looked at her with a mixture of fascination and disdain. She looked ridiculous and out of place, standing in the midst of his organized study, dirty, ragged, with tangled hair, reading softly from a diplomatic report.
"That’s enough," he cut her off.
She raised her eyes to him.
"You’ll never be a warlock. But you do have some skills that I can use. Read, write, and stay silent, and I’ll make sure you have food and clothes.”
She seemed to be weighing her options for a moment, but then she nodded.
"Good. Do you have a name?"
She hesitated, licking her lips.
"Nita."
image [https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/5316f675-86a3-4234-b094-1db7fbdb3237/di7wxx2-c6b4b2eb-2fa7-48f2-bb46-69d8c8d537a5.jpg/v1/fill/w_1280,h_1792,q_75,strp/watching_by_blueberrypanini_di7wxx2-fullview.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.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.goVP3-GVU6LYbyvv_mNAfFbIoDDTUobw-olWYv8P8Zc]