Among the Dark King's eight generals, each man could be traced back to something, whether it be an academy, a noble Magus house, or a military order.
They had roots. They had allegiances. Histories that could be read and weighed.
Ulric had none.
No one knew where he had learned his craft. There were no records of him in any arcane academy across the Empire, no mentor who claimed him, and no noble house that vouched for his rise.
He had never stood in the lecture halls where Magi were trained, never worn the colors of any faction, and never sworn oaths that bound the others. He came and went as he pleased, like a man with no roots and no banner to betray.
A wandering Magus, they called him.
And it was not meant as praise.
Men who wandered did so for a reason. Either they had been cast out, or they had something to hide. In Ulric's case, most believed it was both.
