"Whew..." He blinked as his body fell downward.
He felt himself sinking into a mist, a foggy light spreading inward from the corners of his vision along an unknown trajectory, like the bleeding technique he'd learned when practicing watercolor painting. Instinctively, he interpreted this as some kind of revelation—like a shell on a shallow shore, a faint echo stirred from the endless waves of the soul's sea. That light and shadow gradually formed a vague silhouette, and he didn't need to think hard to know whose back it was—that was his wife. Long-forgotten memories slammed into his dream like a coal-spewing locomotive roaring down the tracks, and he felt his limbs go cold, as if he had returned to a terrible moment in his life. Panic, nervousness, grief, and fury surged up all at once.
But he couldn't remember.
No, he knew it was he himself who had sealed away that memory to resist corruption. He calmed down again, and then it felt like his dream had changed channels. Now he was witnessing mountainous waves crashing before him, the sun obscured by dark clouds, thunder booming across the heavens, replacing the sun's glow with a sky illuminated by fury. Black longships, their hulls seemingly made of dark scales, crept over the horizon. From the mouth of a massive gray wolf roared a violent gale, howling that death was near. A black sun leapt out from behind the longships, casting a cold and deathly light upon the world. He looked down and saw he was standing on a scarred corpse. Another. And another. Everywhere his eyes fell, there was only death, the sea stained thick and red with blood.
Traitor! someone cried out from the void, their rage so great it summoned another round of monstrous waves.
Kaecilius opened his eyes and stared at the bedroom ceiling, letting out another long breath.
He reached out from under the covers and twisted on the warm bedside lamp, then instantly pulled his hand back. Nordic winters were brutal—despite having paid for underfloor heating and radiators, even the faint draft from the window was enough to freeze his fingers. Kaecilius forced himself to sit up in bed, the cold air hitting him like a bomb exploding along his spine, instantly waking him up. He muttered a short incantation to command a cup and thermos of hot water to approach.
Then he put on his glasses, picked up a black leather-bound notebook and pen, and carefully recorded the contents of his dream. As a spellcaster, he hadn't dreamed in a long time—only particularly powerful external forces could make him dream. Protecting one's mind was part of why sorcerers constantly maintained a heightened state of awareness. The earlier dream had already faded, but the second one he remembered clearly: thunder, waves, wolves, mountains, and the cold sun. He assumed it was linked to his long-term assignment.
That assignment was to monitor the movements of the Asgardian royal family. But to be honest, if you set aside his title as All-Father, Odin was actually a rather likable old man. Once, Odin had invited Kaecilius to his log cabin for a small feast—just the two of them. A warm hearth, thick mead, and pork roasted to tender perfection. Beneath the long table, two hounds gnawed at the bones Odin threw them. Greasy hands waving, Odin boasted of his youthful hunts and battlefield glories. The smoke from the burning logs and the rich scent of mushroom soup mingled in the air. A single gulp of mead—far too strong for any normal human stomach—sharpened the senses immediately.
Perhaps he had dreamed of Ragnarök? Had the Norns' threads of fate tangled around him?
Kaecilius jotted down several key elements and began to ponder. But he didn't dwell on it too long. He put away the notebook, took the hot water from the invisible servant, and drank slowly. Taking a deep breath, he threw off the covers and stepped out of bed. The cold air cleared his mind completely. He entered the bathroom and studied the man in the mirror—a grizzled beard and short-cropped hair, deep eye sockets shadowed by harsh overhead lighting. When he lowered his head, the mirror showed countless similar faces all screaming back at him. Kaecilius didn't notice—his dreams had left him restless. He turned on the faucet and began to wash up. When he looked up again, the fragmented faces in the mirror were gone.
Today, Solomon—the boy he'd watched grow up—was coming to visit. He had to be ready.
"I heard about what happened in London. That wasn't your fault," Kaecilius said, pouring Solomon a glass of vodka that had been chilled outdoors, the liquor's surface coated in a thin layer of frost. Solomon shook his head, clinked glasses with him, and downed the nearly full whiskey glass of clear spirits without batting an eye. A mage's tolerance was far beyond that of an ordinary man, thanks to years of body training and magical reinforcement. While he couldn't lift cars like a comic book superhero, curses aside, things like illness almost never troubled him. Of course, a healthy body alone couldn't resist alcohol, but mages had their tricks—like the Elixir of All Spirits Solomon had crafted to counteract intoxication. Though, by now, he no longer needed it. As he grew older, the feedback from his stigmata and the genetic framework crafted by the Earth Mother had long since granted his internal organs superhuman resilience. The most complex and beautiful program in existence was now running inside his body.
"I never said it was my fault. But I still underestimated what a mortal bureaucrat could do. That was a mistake—an irreversible one." As Kaecilius casually poured them a second round, Solomon smacked his lips, savoring the lingering burn from the first. The young mage had changed out of his armor into more formal wear. He swapped the waistcoat for a black long-sleeve sweater and layered a woolen overcoat on top. Even for a friendly visit, he still wore his leather belt with brass buckles at the waist—his short sword and long knife sat quietly in their sheaths, barely visible beneath his coat.
"You must've heard by now—I withdrew from the contest for the title of Sorcerer Supreme," he said. "Things at Kamar-Taj have been far from peaceful."
"I knew long ago. The title is just that—a title. The true authority of the Sorcerer Supreme still rests with you. The Ancient One's favoritism is obvious to everyone." Kaecilius replied, "If someone can't see that, they have no business remaining in Kamar-Taj. Plenty of people have written to me begging for favors, but everyone knows the Ancient One's will cannot be changed. Still, I don't understand—if you've withdrawn, who will inherit the title? What will the Trinity do?"
"In the Sea of Souls, time has no meaning. What you call a prophecy is merely a potential future. To the Trinity, the past and future are indistinguishable."
Kaecilius nodded and mimed zipping his lips.
"Enough of that." He set down his glass and gestured toward the kitchen. "I roasted pork—learned it from my neighbor. It's a traditional Norwegian Christmas dish. Great with alcohol."
"Neighbor?" Solomon recalled the blonde woman he'd met next door. He'd greeted her very politely. "Alien or mortal?"
"Mortal."
"Hmm."
[A special discount will be available from December 30th until Three Kings' Day.]
[Use 37B44 to get 33% off all levels until January 6th]
[Unlock +20 Advanced Chapters on Patre on. com /Mutter]
[For every 50 Power Stones, 1 Bonus Chapter will be released]
[Thank you for reading!]