The journey must have been arduous. It is one thing to travel accompanied by dozens of mages, flaunting your power in every corner of every city you visit; it is quite another to travel alone in black robes that are not yet recognized or respected. Nevertheless, the leader of the Blackcloaks is here, standing at the entrance of the Redcloaks' most important tower in the heart of Bloody Coin, acting as if he owned the place. Impudent.
I am a secretary, much like the stories say he once was. For me, it is a privilege to hold this position; no one fights you for your rank, and you are even less affected when some mage from another town seeks to take over the tower. I am a mere Level 7, yet he concerns me as he passes—not because of his power, which can be measured by the devices provided to us by the Whitecloaks themselves, but rather by the structure of his field. It does not feel powerful. To my quiet amusement, it reminds me of a child blustering, always trying to look bigger or stronger than he truly is. Such a display might be surprising to those who do not understand power, but I am beginning to suspect that a man like this should not be the leader of anything.
He has just passed in front of me. His field, as if it were a living thing, tries to push against me. I imagine that seeing no grand field on my part led him to believe I would be an easy target—perhaps he thought I was a mere servant. His field tasted of vanity, of empty threats. Out of respect for the master of the tower, I always keep mine contracted, but in a place as competitive as the magical orders, we learn that relying on luck is for fools. The condensation of my power was such that his felt like a mere breeze. This confirms my impression of the ignorance or weakness of this supposed leader of the newest order. Still, I introduce myself, even as I itch to strike him down. My master wait for him discreetly; I believe he wants to see how his pathetic enterprise is faring.
Rendesgast is the Supreme Mage of the Redcloaks. I cannot say if anyone outside this tower truly considers him so, but it is well known that his power far exceeds any Redcloak who has come trying to topple him. He arrived here twenty years ago when I was just a youth. His aura was so powerful that, for the first time in the history of the order, the resident mage did not wait to fight; by the time the invader arrived, no one was left in the castle. Rendesgast announced to the poor apprentices who remained that it was the start of a new era—that the war of stone against stone was over. It was time to face life with intelligence and an understanding of the damage we can cause if we commit to it. For some reason, his eyes never seem dull despite his advanced age; right now, they look with amusement at the Blackcloak from the comfort of his desk.
I have brought the tea, prepared in the traditional way because those are the orders: "You cannot depend on magic for everything," he would tell us. "Magic is for when your muscles fail." Thus, I do not know the full story the Blackcloak is telling; I only catch snippets of his "heroics"—if they can even be called a triumph. My master listens with a bored air, but his eyes betray him; he is always attentive to stories, even the pedestrian ones.
"Our battle unit advanced in a delta formation; no one could offer sufficient resistance," the Blackcloak boasts. "Upon reaching the Dark Forest, we encountered massive anti-magic formations that stood no chance. While the main attack took place, we sent raiding squads to divert the attention of the nearest enemies. The Orcs were being harassed, and though they caused many casualties, we lost none of our own. All enemy bodies were annihilated. The few who fled hid like rats. I can safely say that few mages besides us could have achieved such a massacre of the enemy."
I stop listening as I go down for some lean bread. Should he really be proud of that? I know the truth from a primary source—one of the mercenaries he calls a "raider" managed to survive and told us the reality. They attacked an incredible force and were torn to pieces, but the mages provided no support; they limited themselves to killing Goblins... Goblins! Tiny runts that are barely a challenge for any magical apprentice. The Orcs, on the other hand, are beasts capable of resisting Level 5 attacks and crushing your skull before you can finish even the simplest incantation.
When I return, I catch the reason for his visit. Apparently, they managed to capture the Queen of the Succubi. That must have been a stroke of luck. My master looks more appalled than surprised by the news. Six months ago, we witnessed the activation of a permanent magic from afar—an artificial field forged in the Alcázar. We were just beginning to review its extent and effect, along with the incredible amount of magic used to generate something that, according to our first estimates, should last a hundred years. No one in our order could achieve such a feat and remain alive. The implications, the knowledge, the resulting weakness... by my count, it took this individual two months to return to his lair—Midnight Crow is not even remotely a city worthy of the name, let alone a center for the arcane arts—but it is only a three-month journey from there to Bloody Coin. I imagine he delayed another month trying to do something himself.
When he finishes explaining the harmful magics he has used—the devastating effects on a concentrated magic cocoon (incredible to think how much magic was required to materialize a protection of pure magic)—there stands a first-rate mage. I notice even my master wants to meet her. Then, he drops the bombshell: he doesn't want us to see her. He wants my master to teach him a magic strong enough to dissolve the cocoon and eliminate her. Such a senseless request makes my master's hand tremble. He looks as if he's about to vaporize the man, but he calms himself. He asks for his tea and eats a slice of bread. The Blackcloak is not happy; he protests, claiming he is the greatest mage of his society and was a Level 9 mage back when he was with the Whitecloaks.
At that point, my master tells him that is exactly where his error lies. He asks me to face him. If the Blackcloak wins, my master will tell him what he wants to know. In that instant, I feel flames rushing toward me. The Blackcloak leader wants to kill me without even asking himself if it is the right thing to do!