Chapter 12
For the first time, Verena's gaze faltered.
Something flickered in her eyes, a shadow of thought that pulled her sharp edges inward. Her master — the one who had saved her, lifted her out of ruin — had chosen to dwell among these very people. Not only to live among them, but to bind her will to their safety, embedding her power into an artifact that could only be called mythic.
Her eyes darted to the lamp, its fire still blazing with silent warning. She could feel the thrum of layered enchantments in the walls, the air itself woven thick with wards. This house was no mere shelter — it was a fortress of devotion, a shrine to protection.
When she spoke again, her voice had softened, though pride still weighed every word.
"Strange," she murmured, almost to herself, "that she chose this place… chose you. To guard you with such power, to root her magic here. It seems my master saw worth where I did not."
Her gaze shifted to Micah, lingering. The cruel mask cracked for a heartbeat, and what slipped through was both awe and resentment.
"My master," she said at last, each syllable drawn with reverence, "Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov. The Imperion herself."
The name struck the air like a tolling bell. Gasps rippled through the family, fear and wonder mingling in equal measure. Even the lamp flickered, its flame bending in acknowledgment, as though echoing the truth of her words.
The name struck the air like a tolling bell. Gasps rippled through the family, fear and wonder mingling in equal measure. Even the lamp flickered, its flame bending in acknowledgment, as though echoing the truth of her words.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, from the cluster of children pressed against their mother's skirts, a small, trembling voice rose.
"What's… an Imperion?"
The question hung in the silence, fragile, but it broke something in Verena. Her lips parted, and for the first time since stepping into the house, her voice carried no venom, no scorn — only memory.
"An Imperion," she said softly, her eyes shining with something almost like awe, "is power raised above all mortal limits. Not just a master of magic, but its embodiment. There is only ever one, sometimes none… and she was the only one our age had ever known."
Her gaze softened as though seeing Radzimira standing before her once more. "Radzimira was… untouchable. A wand-maker who never sold a single wand, yet crafted the one that carried Merlin himself to greatness. An alchemist who brewed potions no scholar could name, each one more miraculous than the last. A sorceress who could weave transfiguration and illusion so flawlessly that even truth itself bowed to her will."
Verena's lips trembled with a faint smile, wistful and unguarded. "She did not need armies. She was an army. She did not need to speak her worth. The world bent itself around her presence."
Her eyes lowered briefly, and when she raised them again to look at Micah, there was something new there — not contempt, not scorn, but the shadow of reverence. "And she… chose you."
From the cluster of children, another voice rose — identical to the one who had just spoken, yet not the same boy, but his twin brother. His tone was just as small, just as uncertain.
"Are you… an Imperion?"
For the first time, Verena laughed — softly, not mockingly, but with something like gentleness. She shook her head, a faint smile curving her lips.
"No, child. Not even close." Her eyes dimmed with humility, and she lowered her wand fully at last. "I was only ever counted among the Dominors… and even then, just barely. Compared to her, I was a candle beside the sun."
She glanced at the faces around her, then added with surprising patience, "You deserve to know what that means."
Her tone grew instructive, as though she were reciting a lesson ingrained deep into memory:
"Wandlings — children just beginning their journey, their sparks still wild and unshaped.
Neophytes — those with discipline enough to command their first true spells.
Preceptors — guides, teachers, and wonder-workers, skilled but not great.
Dominors — lords and ladies of magic, feared and revered, bending the world to their command.
Magisters — the Great Masters. Rare beyond measure. Merlin himself was one, and none since have matched him.
Magistrals — the supreme authorities of mortal magic, rarer even than Magisters.
And above all… Imperion."
Her voice lowered, almost reverent. "A title given only when the gods themselves seem to breathe through mortal flesh. There can be only one… sometimes none. Radzimira was the last, and perhaps the last there will ever be."
Her eyes lingered on Micah as the words left her lips, though she kept the thought to herself: or perhaps… not
Micah's chest tightened as Verena's words sank into the silence. The children sat transfixed, wide-eyed, as if they had just glimpsed the edge of a world far greater than their own. Even the air seemed to thrum with weight, as though the names she had spoken — Wandlings, Neophytes, Dominors, Imperion — were not mere ranks but living echoes, too sacred to be uttered lightly.
From the cluster, a small voice broke the hush.
"So… Nonna is truly gone?"
The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to falter. Verena lowered her gaze, her lashes veiling the sharpness in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was stripped of grandeur, soft as ash.
"Yes," she said. "She is."
Silence again. The children shifted, unease pressing against them like a chill.
Another voice rose — hesitant, almost pleading.
"But you said she was the most powerful… what was it? What was she?"
One twin turned to the other, eyes wide, searching for the word.
"A wizard?"
The other shook his head, whispering the answer as if afraid the walls themselves might listen.
"Imperion."
The word lingered, trembling in the air like a spell newly cast.
The word hung there, fragile and terrible. Even the youngest seemed to know it was not a name to be tossed about.
Verena's head lifted slowly, her eyes catching the faint glow of the hearth. For a moment she only looked at them — each small face, expectant and uncertain — before she finally spoke.
"Yes," she said at last, her voice low but steady. "Imperion."
She let the syllables settle, each one falling heavy into the silence.
"That was what she was," Verena continued, her tone touched with both reverence and sorrow. "Not merely powerful. Not merely wise. She was the fire that all others drew their light from. A name spoken in fear, in hope, in awe. She was… Imperion. And there will never be another quite like her."
Her gaze lowered again, and this time the silence that followed was not of fear but of mourning. The children bowed their heads, as though the word itself demanded it.
One of the twins shifted, his small hands tightening into fists. His lips trembled as he forced the words out.
"But if she was so powerful… then why did she…"
The words faltered, broken in his throat. A tear slipped down his cheek, carving a shining trail in the firelight. He swallowed, voice cracking as he forced himself to finish.
"Were the people fighting her… stronger?"
For a heartbeat the room was still, the fire popping softly in the silence. Then Verena stiffened, her face hardening like stone struck by lightning. Her eyes flashed, her breath seared with fury.
"How dare you—" Her voice thundered through the chamber, echoing off stone. The children flinched as if struck. "Insolent carnal! She was the most powerful wizard in our history!"
Her hand shook as she raised her wand, its tip trembling with the violence of her emotion. Her breath came ragged, and her words broke apart like glass under strain.
"She… she…"
Her gaze blurred, fury collapsing into disbelief, confusion slicing through her pride like a knife.
"She did lose against… but how? How—no, why did she lose? How could she have lost to a mere, pathetic, lowly carnal?"
Her voice cracked on the last word, a raw sound that made the younger children whimper. They clutched one another, shrinking back into the shadows, wide eyes reflecting the sharp, wavering light of the wand in her hand.
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick as smoke. Verena's chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, her composure crumbling before them. And then—
Her eyes caught it.
A flicker. A glimmer. Something so subtle, so impossible, it pierced her anger like a blade of ice. She blinked, once, then again, disbelieving. Her heart jolted in her chest.
What she saw could not be.
It was something which could not be true. Something impossible.