Chapter 532
A flash of recognition flickered in the eyes of the old mage. He picked up the cup, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Hmm, cheeky boy. But you are, indeed, right. My Lord has plans for holding off the empire’s interference for some time. This broadcast serves a far greater goal for his future plans."
Before Rattan could respond, the old mage’s voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. "Why did you lie to your friends?"
Rattan’s smile remained fixed, an unreadable mask as he looked at the old man, but he said nothing. The older mage, undeterred, continued, "You know my Lord can’t guarantee the safety of your friends’ families and those they know if the empire decides on retaliating." He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "You know of this, yet you promised them safety. Even I, who was listening, was convinced you had plans. If I didn’t know what I knew, I would have been like those friends of yours who are now heading for their demise and horror with a promised conviction on everything being alright."
Rattan’s smile finally faltered, replaced by a subtle hardening of his features. He didn’t deny the accusation, nor did he offer an immediate defense. He simply met the older mage’s unflinching stare, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in his words. The air in the room, once thick with strategic planning and ambition, now crackled with a different kind of tension – one born of hard choices and moral compromises.
He took a slow breath, his gaze drifting from the old mage to the discarded scrolls on the workbench, as if searching for answers in their complex runes. "Hope," Rattan began, his voice low and deliberate, "is a powerful motivator. Fear, on the other hand, is a crippling one. If I had laid bare the full extent of the risks, if I had spoken of the very real possibility of imperial retribution against their loved ones... how many would have truly walked out that door tonight?"
He turned back to the older mage, his expression now resolute. "They needed conviction. They needed to believe in a tangible safety net, a shield against the empire’s wrath, even if that shield is, for now, more concept than concrete. Their belief in our cause, in His Grace’s influence, is what will drive them forward. It is what will give them the courage to face the Abyss, and in doing so, expose the empire’s failures."
Rattan paused, his gaze darkening slightly. "Sometimes, the truth, unvarnished, paralyzes. A carefully constructed hope, however, empowers. They are heading into a storm, yes, but they go with purpose, believing their sacrifice is meaningful and their loved ones are protected. That belief, even if subtly manipulated, is what will make this ’broadcast’ a success. The alternative was inaction, and that, my friend, is a far greater horror than any potential retribution."
The old mage listened, his head slowly nodding, a flicker of something unreadable in his ancient eyes. He took a sip from the tea Rattan had poured, the steam momentarily clouding his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, tinged with a melancholic curiosity.
"I understand the necessity, boy. I’ve seen enough of this world to know that grand visions often demand... difficult truths." He set the teacup down with a soft clink. "But it makes me wonder, Rattan. What kind of person have you become? I remember the innocent child, the one who saw the injustices and burned with a quiet, undeniable compassion. The young mage who worried over every stray and every slight."
His gaze sharpened, but it was not accusatory; rather, it was deeply contemplative. "Most mages, once they gain power, they shed such sentiments. They become cold, calculating. You, however, were an exception. Your compassion was a rare, surprising thing among those I’ve seen rise. And now... now it’s a disappointment to see that you, too, are beginning to lose it, aren’t you?"
Rattan met the older mage’s gaze, the subtle smile that had graced his lips moments before now completely gone. The question hung in the air, a stark mirror reflecting the choices he had made. He ran a hand over his shaven head, a gesture of quiet contemplation.