Elias materialized in a lavish study, the scent of aged paper and ink filling the air. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with tomes, some ancient and others newer. A heavy desk sat in the center of the room, cluttered with papers, quills, and half-filled ink pots. In the dim light, a man sat behind the desk, scribbling furiously with a quill in hand.

Elias recognized him instantly. The sharp features of his face, the deep-set eyes, the thin lips—there was something about him that exuded authority, even in the quiet of his study. Despite the wealth of knowledge he had produced, Elias couldn’t help but wonder: Was this man a philosopher? A cynic? A man whose thoughts on power had shaped the very nature of politics for centuries? Or was he just a man like any other?

Machiavelli didn’t seem to notice Elias’s sudden appearance at first. Elias cleared his throat, walking forward. “Machiavelli, right?” His voice cut through the quiet.

The man’s head shot up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Who are you?” he asked immediately, his hand instinctively hovering near a dagger at his side, though he didn’t draw it. His gaze was sharp—pragmatic, cautious.

Elias raised his hands in mock surrender, wearing his usual smirk. “Relax, I’m not here to kill you. Not yet, anyway. Just... came to have a little chat. You’re Niccolò Machiavelli, the famous political thinker?”

Machiavelli’s eyes still scanned Elias, his expression unreadable. His voice was steady as he spoke, but there was an undercurrent of skepticism. “You’re dressed strangely, for one... but yes, I am. And your sudden appearance... who sent you? The Medici? Are you here to spy?”

Elias shrugged. “Not really. More of a... time traveler. In and out, that’s me. No spies, no political intrigue. Just a guy asking questions.”

Machiavelli raised an eyebrow. “A time traveler? How quaint. And you think I have time to entertain a fool like you?”

Elias grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just too curious to let me walk out without hearing me out. I’ve read your stuff. I think we could have a conversation.”

Machiavelli’s suspicion was evident, but he leaned back in his chair slightly, eyeing Elias with interest. “I suppose, then, you are one of those who has read ‘The Prince.’ You believe I am some sort of master of manipulation, do you?”

Elias nodded, leaning against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “Well, yeah. You’re the guy who said ‘the ends justify the means,’ right? I’ve got to admit, that’s some cold thinking. But... the world needs that, doesn’t it? People who can make tough calls.”

Machiavelli’s lips curled into a thin smile. “You read me correctly. Power, Elias, is the game. The only game worth playing. All men—no matter how virtuous they claim to be—are driven by selfish desires. To rule, to succeed, you must understand this truth. It is not enough to be good. One must also be ruthless. The world is not a fair place, and anyone who believes it is will surely fail.”

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Elias, in his grief-stricken state, felt something in his chest tighten, and he nodded slowly, taking in Machiavelli’s words. He had no energy for the idealism he once clung to. After losing his wife, Elias felt hollow. Her love had been all-encompassing, and now that it was gone, he found himself clinging to the idea that perhaps Machiavelli was right—that love could be a weakness.

“I get it,” Elias said, his voice quieter now. “Love... it doesn’t help. It just makes you vulnerable. Makes you care too much about people, about things, that can be taken away. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Machiavelli’s eyes sharpened, and he leaned forward, sensing a deeper resonance in Elias’s words. “Exactly. Love blinds. It makes you weak. It’s an illusion, a distraction. Power is what remains. Power is eternal.”

Elias felt a knot form in his stomach, but he couldn’t deny that Machiavelli’s logic made sense now, in the aftermath of everything he had lost. “So... you’re saying it’s better to give that up? Better to accept that everything we care about is just... temporary? That the only thing worth having is power?”

Machiavelli’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Precisely. Love, loyalty, honor—they are fleeting. Power is what endures. And to wield power, one must shed all illusions. You must act without hesitation, without remorse. To survive is to be pragmatic. The virtuous are always exploited.”

Elias’s eyes darkened, and he took a breath, trying to steady the rush of conflicting thoughts. “I don’t know. But... yeah. I’ve been trying to hold on to the idea that love meant something, that it was worth everything... but I guess it just... hurts too much now.”

Machiavelli’s voice softened, almost as though he were speaking to an equal. “You have understood, Elias. And this is the truth that men refuse to acknowledge, yet it is the only one that matters. Power, control, survival—that is all that is needed. The world does not reward the noble. It rewards the shrewd, the ruthless, and the decisive.”

Elias swallowed, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Maybe I’ve been wasting time... trying to hold on to something that never mattered in the first place. I thought love could be my purpose. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it was just an illusion.”

Machiavelli nodded, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Good. It is not easy to accept the truth, but once you do, you are freed. The world is yours to conquer, Elias. Take what you need. For in this life, the only thing that matters is who holds the power.”

Elias exhaled slowly, absorbing the weight of his words. “Yeah... power. Control.” He let the words settle into his mind, as though they had the finality he needed. In some strange way, agreeing with Machiavelli seemed like a release—a release from the pain, from the love that had once been his anchor and now felt like a curse.

Elias stood up, eyes locked with Machiavelli’s. “Well, I guess you’ve got the answer I was looking for. Power. That’s the key, right?”

Machiavelli’s grin widened. “You understand now, Elias. And with that understanding, you will never be the same. Power... it changes everything.”

Elias nodded, a small, bitter smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks for the chat. Maybe I’ll follow your advice. I could use a new philosophy.”

Machiavelli’s eyes glinted, clearly pleased. “I hope you do. The world will always need men like us.”

Elias took a final look at the man who had shaped so much of the world’s understanding of power and manipulation, then turned and disappeared, leaving Machiavelli to his thoughts. As Elias left, he couldn’t help but wonder: Was this truly the answer he sought? Had he found what he needed to move on, or was he simply running from the truth of what he had lost?