MEYRIV, (FOUR YEARS OLD).

A small boy sat on the dirt in his father’s yard. He stacked rocks and sticks, imagining the piles as castles and soldiers.

Every few seconds he looked behind him, alert.

Soon, a weary young woman turned the corner and saw him. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run away, but she caught his hand before he could.

“Meyriv! You need to stop running off. It’s time for you to study.”

The child's expression darkened and tears began to well up in his eyes, but he didn’t allow himself to cry. Father would be mad if he cried.

He let Linia lead him back inside and they sat down at a small desk while she had him copy letters and numbers onto his slate, naming each one in turn. When he had filled the space on his slate, she quizzed him on the sounds each letter made.

They repeated this process for two hours, heedless of Meyriv’s boredom and restlessness.

They moved on to practicing arithmetic. His mind wandered to the yard, but she wouldn’t allow him to escape.

His attention was compromised and he was slow to answer the questions he was given.

Evidently, his answers were wrong.

Linia gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine, go play in the yard for a bit, this is getting nowhere.”

He leapt to his feet and scrambled to the door.

A few minutes later, his father arrived unexpectedly.

He dismounted his horse and walked over, his perpetual scowl deepening.

“Why aren’t you studying?”

Meyriv looked around fearfully, searching in vain for somewhere to hide.

Linia stepped out of the door and explained.

“I was letting him play for a few minutes. He was having trouble focusing on the problems.”

“He just needs to try harder! It's difficult enough to get any knowledge through that thick skull of his without letting him waste time.”

Linia had to step aside quickly as the man entered the door and slammed it behind him.

She called him over, an expression of pity on her face. “Playtime is over now, please come inside.”

He looked up at her, his eyes pleading for more time.

“Your father needs you to practice more.”

Two silent tears fell from the child's face, but he immediately wiped them away in shame and quietly let her usher him inside.

His face was not the only one with tear stains.

---

MEYRIV, (SIX YEARS).

Long after dark, he worked quietly at his desk, tallying columns on the practice ledgers his father had given to him.

At last, he filled in the final entry.

“Father, it’s finished!” He called to the other room.

“We’ll see.” He replied, walking in a short time later.

He skimmed through the papers casually for a few seconds and then marked a box.

“That total is incorrect. If this were a real case, this type of mistake could cost thousands. I suppose you didn’t want to eat tonight after all.”

“But I”—

“No. You must learn to be exact in your work. How will you learn if mistakes are free?”

The conversation was over.

---

MEYRIV, (TEN YEARS).

He was running to catch up with two younger boys, hoping to be included in their game. As he ran past a house, some teenage boys lunged at him from around the corner and grabbed his shirt, tearing it.

“Ha! I got the tax-whelp!”

Meyriv struggled, looking around for help, but saw no one.

The boys took turns holding him in place while the others beat him. Eventually, they left him lying bruised on the ground.

---

It was after dark when he regained consciousness. He limped home, trying to see through his swollen eyelids.

He walked in and collapsed on the floor, leaving blood smears as cuts reopened.

His father yelled from the other room

“What kept you, laggard?! These audits are due tomorrow! How would you like to spend the rest of the”—

He cut off as he entered the room and saw his condition.

New, different fury suffused his countenance. He helped Meyriv into a chair. Softly, he growled:

“Who?”

Meyriv told him the names of the older boys.

He grunted.

“They’re all spawn of liars and thieves. I’ll make sure we get compensation.”

His father retrieved some salve and bandages from a cupboard.

---

MEYRIV, (ELEVEN YEARS).

His father entered the house in a rage. He said nothing as he stormed to his office, slamming the door.

Meyriv had heard the news yesterday.

Their small nation had been annexed by a neighboring empire. His father had been abruptly dismissed as the regional tax collector.

Debts were closing in.

Meyriv lay down on the cold stone floor. He liked to follow the lines in the minerals with his hands. It helped take his mind off of the present.

He closed his eyes, exhausted.

“That’s strange...I must be more tired than I thought.”

If this wasn’t some sort of hallucination, he could sense the minerals in the stone without even looking.

To test it, with his eyes still closed he walked into the next room. He then tried to find the largest vein in this room, without opening his eyes to check or letting his hands touch the ground.

“I’m foolish to think this is anything more than fatigue and wishful thinking.”

“Still...”

He opened his eyes.

His fingers were directly above the mineral vein.

From then onward, his father began to drown his troubles in liqueur, staying out late and sleeping in later.

---

MEYRIV, (12 YEARS).

One night, his father never came back from the tavern.

In the morning his body was found lying behind the building, several bones fractured.

He was numb to the news. He couldn't feel much grief or sorrow, only fear of the consequences.

He felt powerless.

As expected, it was only a few days before his father’s house was taken to pay back debts.

A family agreed to take him in as a farmhand. They had a spare bed, as one of their sons had succumbed to an infection several months prior.

---

ORBEN WAS A COURT MAGE OF AVERAGE TALENT AND INFLUENCE.

Less than a month had passed since Baron Klivari had been unexpectedly deposed by this ‘Meyriv’.

Orben had heard the rumors.

Some said he was a vengeful spirit, sent to punish Klivari for actions during his time in the imperial military.

Others claimed he was a demon, or a saboteur sent from hostile nations to destabilize the region. Or both.

He didn’t really care what the truth was. All he knew is that the Empire would not accept one of their fiefdoms being usurped by some unknown interloper, local traditions or no.

His country had been annexed peacefully. Although he had no love for imperial rule, war was a futile prospect.

Orben couldn’t let that happen. He had a family to think about. Life under foreign rule was better than the death and starvation war would bring.

A team of mercenaries followed him. He maintained an enchantment that kept them silent and nearly invisible.

They climbed the final staircase to the Baron’s chambers, and he unlocked the door with a key they had procured from servants.

Silently, they filed in and lined up facing the bed.

Ten crossbows leveled venom-tipped bolts at the person under the blankets.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Orben quickly wove subtle enchantments to detect magical attempts to escape or retaliate.

Orben had listened to several eye-witness accounts of the previous baron’s defeat.

He had suspicions as to how this man had survived.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he prepared his mind.

And seized the man’s soul, holding it firmly in place.

“NOW!” he shouted

The soul tried to shake loose, but he held firm.

Ten crossbows fired in near-unison, all finding their mark. The soul’s light seemed to flicker and warp.

Continuing to grasp the man’s soul, Orben waited until he could sense the man’s body expire.

He released his grip, and a short time later the soul faded.

He breathed a sigh of relief and led the way out of the building.

At the bottom of the steps stood Meyriv.

Orben froze.

“...How? Was it a decoy?” He remembered the strange flicker.

“I wish; those bolts were painful. Which toxin was that?” the baron said.

“...How did…What are —” Orben demanded, heart sinking

“More importantly, what are you?” Meyriv responded

Not waiting for a reply, he continued:

“I know what you are. You are treasonous cowards. As such, the law requires your death.”

He raised his hands, revealing ten blood-stained bolts.*

They launched themselves from his hands, each seeking the one who had fired them.

As the mercenaries collapsed and fell still, Orben felt a grip tighten on his soul. He saw it now, too late.

The man’s ‘soul’ was a clever imitation. A disposable front, almost indistinguishable from its owner.

“But where is the real one?”

He received no reply.

His soul was released, Its connection severed.

---

KLIVARI

The former baron sat in an inn near his old castle, pondering his investigation.

A pseudo-legitimate disguise as an imperial diplomat had allowed him to remain active in and around his old court, and he had spent the last three months carefully gathering information about his successor.

He had been able to learn frustratingly little.

As far as anyone could tell, the new baron had no friends, lovers, or close associates.

He rarely left his chambers, much less the castle.

He had already acquired a reputation for his ruthless enforcement of laws and punishments. He had dismissed no fewer than four court scribes for simple accounting mistakes, and personally executed two administrators for embezzlement.

Considering the man’s obsession with financial efficiency, Klivari had initially assumed him to be greedy. And yet, he had seen no evidence of the luxurious lifestyle and extravagant expenditures he would expect from avarice.

Klivari had been unable to discover any details as to the man’s goals, abilities, and origin.

The only promising lead he had been able to unearth was that several years ago in Bridgeport, a child with the name ‘Meyriv’ had failed his evaluation for a mage apprenticeship. Unfortunately, the trail ended there.

He had stepped down from his position as Baron to maintain his honor in the eyes of the locals, but he retained his rank in the imperial military.

His intervention had thus far prevented the empire from taking any direct action.

He was not entirely opposed to their assistance, but he feared their methods to remove Meyriv by force would result in numerous civilian casualties.

The new baron himself was unpredictable at best.

At worst, he was quite likely insane.

Thus, Klivari continued to search for a more elegant solution.

---

Two months later, he met with the new Baron in person.

“The Lemnarch Empire would like to formally offer you the position of elite battle mage. The benefits include honorary noble status in the mainland and opportunities to transfer away from this backwater post.”

Klivari, still disguised as a diplomat, placed a contract in front of Meyriv, giving him time to read.

A few minutes later, the baron pushed the paper back towards him.

“Not interested.”

“May I ask why, Baron Meyriv?”

“I have no desire to become anyone’s vassal. Particularly since this contract would require me to allow imperial mages to study under me, which I see as little more than a poorly-disguised attempt to root out my secrets.”

“Those reasons aside, I would be loath to sign so much as a handkerchief if it had the stench of the Lemnarch's magic.”

“And you understand that rejecting this offer will incur said empire’s displeasure?”

“I would be almost insulted if it did not.”

“I will convey your answer to the capital.”

Meyriv nodded, already disinterested.

---

His plan stymied, Klivari sought help

The new baron’s methods were alien to him.

He reluctantly reached out to an old acquaintance of his, a legend in his own right.

“Lord Irotem...do you know anything about this ‘Meyriv’ or how he cheats death?”

“Far too much.”

---

Meyriv sat at his desk in his private chambers, reading the latest reports and reviewing his notes and plans.

He expected imperial assassins to arrive any day now. He had made countless preparations and contingency plans to outmaneuver and dispatch them.

He doubted they could do much more than inconvenience him.

Regardless, he made his plans under the assumption that they were capable of truly destroying him.

“It would be so convenient if they would simply leave me alone. I won this fiefdom lawfully, as they well know.”

“Ungrateful as they are, maybe I should just leave the people to be imperial serfs. What have they ever done for me?

I step in and provide stability and structure, and what do they do? They hate me because I had to make a few examples to establish precedent! Can’t they take a few steps back and see the big picture?”

“Even those I made examples of brought it upon themselves! It’s no fault of mine that the previous leadership was lazy and let criminals off easy.”

He noticed his hands had clenched into fists and he was gritting his teeth.

He scolded himself and tried to relax.

Anger was just as much a weakness as pity.

He heard a soft footstep behind him.

He jumped from his chair and triggered a trap, invisible ropes binding the intruder.

He drew his dagger—

And recognized the intruder.

“...Cellarius?”

The construct casually phased through the magical restraints and strode up to Meyriv, stopping two paces in front of him.

“Irotem requires your presence without delay.”

“Why? If he knew where I was, why did he wait until now to contact me?

“That is not part of my message.”

The construct dissolved into an amorphous globe of energy and floated away though the ceiling.

“What makes him think he can still order me around?”

As if on cue, he felt something in his magic shift. The flow of energy from his acquired conduit abruptly petered off and slowed to a weak trickle.

Meyriv’s face went pale.

He gathered his things and left the castle unseen a few minutes later.

He ran towards Irotem’s territory, rarely slowing or stopping. He fed his body energy directly from his conduit.

“Even with my second conduit crippled, my anchor is nearly indestructible. I doubt I have anything to fear from Irotem.”

“...Who am I kidding, he’s two steps ahead of me even now.

If he wanted me dead, I doubt my methods would be much more than an annoyance.”

---

After two days of walking without rest, he climbed the path to Irotem’s house.

Aside from the reduced flow of energy, he sensed faint...rumbling from the crippled conduit. Like a distant, crashing waterfall just out of sight.

He opened the doors and stepped inside.

All the furniture and decoration was gone. A few meters inside, a solid wall of stone now blocked the hallway.

Directly in front of him, a small alcove was visible in the wall.

He hesitantly walked up to it and removed the contents: A single sheet of paper, addressed to him.

Meyriv,

I am sorry. You may forgive me one day.

In the meantime, don’t bother looking for me. I have already passed beyond your reach.

With sorrow,

Irotem

He stood holding the paper for several seconds, head spinning as he tried to make sense of it.

Two thunderous shockwaves sounded in the air outside, and he heard the echoing crack of shattering rocks.

And a gleaming claw larger than his torso seized him, pulling him out the doorway.

A majestic silver dragon sat before the empty house in the mountainside.

It lifted him level with its face and inspected him through a shining silver eye the size of a dinner plate.

A familiar sense of terror descended upon him.

He knew who she was.

The realization did not bring much comfort.

“Our skulking prodigal returns.” A voice entered his mind, distinctly female yet obviously not human.

“Did you think your actions were honorable, I wonder? Did you tell yourself you were fixing the ills of the world?”

“You are not the first hatchling to believe they knew what was best. Ignorant hubris does not justify your actions. Nor erase the consequences.”

She took off, rapidly passing nearby cliffs. After barely two minutes she angled downwards again, landing in a meadow Meyriv knew well.

The threads of magic were now ropes and streams. The tree was engulfed in a fountain of energy.

EIrian dropped him on the ground near the tree and pinned him down with a claw. He looked up at the tree.

Leaning against the trunk was a young woman.

Eirian spoke to him again:

“This is Rynisia. Do you remember her?”

He looked at in confusion

Her eyes were a glowing emerald color.

He had seen those eyes before, in this very place.

His eyes widened. He recognized her soul.

He lowered his head in shame.

The dragon spoke.

“Now. Thief. You tortured her in your selfish pursuit of power. You bound yourself to a wellspring you had no right to access, with her soul as the gateway.

Do you deny these accusations?”

Meyriv closed his eyes.

“Do you deny them?”

The claw dug into his back.

“...no.”

Rynisia wiped tears from her eyes and looked away.

Eirian spoke:

“For this and your actions as ‘baron’, I curse you. All pain you cause others shall be reflected in you. Furthermore, the pain of all in your presence shall be reflected in you, regardless of cause.”

From every direction, silken silver strands of energy flowed towards him, coursing through the conduit and invading his ‘secret’ anchor. They settled around his soul like a cage.

His eyes glazed to milky white before gaining a reflective silver sheen.

All at once, his mind was besieged:

By the mourning of a dragon, loss still aching fresh and poignant.

By the pain and rage of an innocent soul who had been thoughtlessly abused.

By the aching sorrow of those who cared of those thirteen whose deaths he had caused.

By periodic, individual fears of citizens that their mad baron would trap them into a futile war for his own ends.

Screams and whimpers echoed in his mind alongside the pain.

The tumult of pressures battered at his mind, driving him to the ground.

He screamed until his voice gave out.

In desperation, he tried to destroy his anchor.

But his power had been taken from him.

And he realized with horror the curse of his own making.

He could not die, even if subjected to pain that would stop a mortal’s heart.

He retreated to his anchor, his body losing consciousness.

The pain did not stop, even there.