Venice, Twenty-third year of the magical era

There are things we can’t know, there are things we can’t have.

There are ladies we can’t swoon and there are guys who can’t fuck.

“Your Highness.”

A voice came from behind. I quickly turned the page of my notebook onto a page filled with scribbles and army plans.

“We have yet to receive words from the third messenger division.”

I sighed, stood, closed my notebook of nicely cut parchment, and looked down to the little kid who had brought me the message. “How many does that make?”

“Three,” said the boy.

“And how many armies do we have?”

“Uhggg, I don’t know,” he muttered.

“That’s a good answer, now leave.” The boy ran away. “Another noble rebelled. That wasn’t an issue nor a surprise. What did bother me was.

“My prince,” a man came from the bushes.

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That man had a thing for stray leaves. A bit of an eccentric, but that only made it more interesting.

“If this goes on we won’t have any men to challenge that man.”

“I know you don’t have to state the obvious.” I opened my notebook once again. “Some people are more cautious than others. It’s just a shame that he is one of the most.” I flipped through pages upon pages of my quill’s will. This was a new era, judgment, but not the church’s version. A better version, on where desires of power were granted upon us. We had passed it, but not with perfect grades. We weren’t permitted to walk on heaven nor condemned to sleep in hell. Both were merged into one. This is the new world filled with magic. The old rules and restrictions no longer apply as there will be no more judgment.

“To the west I suppose,” I muttered and looked up to the sky. “Who reigns those parts? Alexandre?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Then send some devotees to scout the area.” The man disappeared into the bushes.

#

“Father.” I gave a slight bow to the King.

“Yes, what is it?” His head drooped. His eyes downcast brimmed with age. His retinue of guards, who played ball with him in the rose gardens a century ago. Who drank their first drip of blood on the same battlefield. Who shared the same drink of wine. They were all just as sagged and old. They leaned on their sides, weighed down by medals and long swords rusted at the base.

Once the king’s eyes locked with mine like dead men walking, they stepped back in unison. “Count Alexandre of Lausanne has killed our messengers and men.”

The king’s eyes shot open, “The church’s men?”

“Yes, those who hold magic,” I repeated. The king scratched his chin. “Then I’ll ask the church to lend you one hundred. I’ll also inform the Pope of this and ask for his excommunication. The act of killing the children of God is a grave sin.”

I bowed and left. The church this, the church that. I’ll become state and church. They cannot monopolize magic. Their days are numbered. Swords will have their necks.