Meanwhile, back with Rattan, Vellok could hardly control the tremor in his hand. The fleeting moment of recognition between the angel within him and Ikenga had been unmistakable, yet bewilderingly brief. He sent out another, more forceful wave of his mana towards Rattan, expecting some kind of reaction from the young mage, some flicker of awareness or resonance with the power he carried. But, contrary to all expectation, nothing happened. Rattan merely blinked, the effects of the earlier clarity spell holding. It made Vellok question if the previous happening had been an illusion, a trick of his own fatigued mind.
As for Rattan, the immediate effect of Vellok’s mana had been a jolt, followed by a surge of overwhelming power that made him break out in a heavy sweat. He had sensed strength from the Ogre King and Master Gorok, but it paled in comparison to the figure now calmly seated before him. This mage’s mana seemed to have no discernible limit, an endless, swirling vortex of arcane energy.
A chilling realization clawed its way into Rattan’s mind. He knew immediately this figure was from the Empire, a pillar of its magical might. "Were these," he thought, his stomach churning, "the type of beings he and the Ogre King had been going against?" The sheer disparity in power made his previous actions feel utterly reckless, almost suicidal.
Rattan felt a cold dread settle in his stomach, a certainty that he wouldn’t be surprised if the Ogre King had sold him out for his own safety. He would understand. But contrary to his thought, the figure across from him spoke first, his voice calm, resonating with a quiet authority.
"Mage Nixbolt," he began, "you might have heard of my name before, but for formal purposes, I will introduce myself as Grand Mage Vellok."
The name hit Rattan like a physical blow. He immediately scrambled from his seat, dropping to one knee, head bowed in deep deference. There were too many histories, too many whispered stories about this figure, especially the most prominent one: his unparalleled position and direct relation to the Emperor himself. Rattan found himself utterly unable to speak, his tongue tied by a mix of fear and overwhelming respect.
A moment of silence stretched between them before Vellok spoke again, his voice softer, almost reflective. "Do you hate the Empire, boy?"
Rattan remained on one knee, his head bowed, the words of the Grand Mage echoing in his mind. The question hung in the air, a silent challenge. His mind raced, a frantic war between self-preservation and the burning indignation that had fueled his actions. Should he lie, offer the expected sycophantic reverence? Or should he speak the truth, risk everything, and lay bare the resentment that had festered within him and his people for generations?
He knew the power of the man before him. A single word from Vellok could end his life, erase him from existence. Yet, in that moment, something shifted. Perhaps it was the lingering clarity from Vellok’s spell, or the raw memories of the battlefield and his betrayed mages, but a stubborn resolve hardened within him. A lie felt hollow, meaningless, a betrayal of the very defiance he had just unleashed upon the Empire.
Taking a shaky breath, Rattan slowly raised his head, his gaze, though still wary, now met Vellok’s. "Hate?" he rasped, his voice rough. "No, Grand Mage. Hate is too simple a word for what I feel. I feel... confusion. Betrayal. And anger that we let strangers—’Demons’ in this case—play in our backyard while the Empire sits back and watches."
His voice gained strength with each word, the suppressed frustrations bubbling to the surface. "We are told we are protected, that the Empire is supreme. Yet, when the true Abyss came, we do nothing. And those who are doing something, their deaths are deemed a strategic necessity while the citizens lounge in blissful ignorance. If that is the Empire’s protection, then I do not understand it."
Rattan’s voice rose, a bitter edge entering his tone. "This war has gone nowhere since the beginning, no achievement on the Empire’s side. The Empire forces us to sit and wait for our deaths, meanwhile villages and lands are taken over. Only cities seem to be protected, yet even with that, we lost one city and a high-tier mage at that."
Vellok listened, his expression unreadable, allowing Rattan to vent the torrent of his accumulated frustration. The Grand Mage offered no interruption, no flicker of anger at the young mage’s audacity. He simply observed, a deep knowing in his eyes.
"And when we finally get a chance to push back," Rattan continued, his voice trembling with a raw, desperate indignation, "when we find a way to fight these horrors, when we show the people what is truly happening, what do you do? You shut it down. You silence the truth, just as you silence those who dared to speak it! You let the ratfolk fight and die for a secret war while the Empire feasts on lies!" He gestured wildly around the room, as if encompassing the entirety of the vast, oblivious Imperial lands. "You speak of protection, Grand Mage, but all I see is control. Control over knowledge, control over lives, and ultimately, control over our people choice on deaths!"
Rattan finally slumped forward, spent, the raw emotion leaving him breathless. He kept his gaze fixed on Vellok, daring the Grand Mage to deny it, to justify the betrayal he felt so keenly. The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the weight of Rattan’s accusations and the unspoken truths they both carried.
Vellok’s expression remained impassive as Rattan’s impassioned outburst died down. The Grand Mage leaned back slightly in the armchair, studying the younger goblin with an unnerving intensity. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost conversational.
"It seems the Empire’s hard work to manipulate propaganda hasn’t been doing so well," Vellok remarked, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. "You are a goblin, Mage Nixbolt, a goblin mage at that, yet you somehow feel heavily for the ratfolk." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, a direct challenge to Rattan’s ingrained biases and the carefully constructed racial hierarchies of the Empire. "Tell me, where did this newfound empathy for a despised, lesser race truly come from?"
Rattan flinched, the subtle jab hitting its mark. He knew the ingrained prejudices, the constant disdain goblins held for ratfolk. His own mind had been filled with it for years. Yet, the images he had seen, the raw desperation on the battlefield, had burned through the propaganda.
"It came from seeing them fight, Grand Mage," Rattan said, his voice firm despite the shame that still pricked at him. "It came from watching them stand against something that would have utterly destroyed us without a second thought. It came from realizing that if we were in their place, the Empire would likely do the same to us. Their ’lesser’ status, as you put it, doesn’t make them less alive, less capable of fear, or less deserving of protection when faced with an existential threat."
He paused, a new thought solidifying in his mind. "And it came from the armor, Grand Mage. The armor that made them fight like true warriors. An armor that allowed them to hold their ground, even if just for a moment, against the Abyss. The armor that you and the Empire clearly did not provide. My empathy, as you call it, came from seeing the truth, not the lies we are fed."
"Do you know of our people’s history?" Vellok asked, his gaze unwavering.
Rattan opened his mouth to speak, a standard Imperial education’s recitation of glorious victories and benevolent governance ready on his tongue. But then he hesitated, the recent revelations about the war, the propaganda, and the surprising depth of Vellok’s knowledge stopping him. He looked at the Grand Mage, a newfound wariness in his eyes. "I have a feeling the history you speak of isn’t one I’m familiar with."
Vellok’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Smart boy."
"Take a walk with me?"
Rattan, still reeling from the unspoken implications of the Grand Mage’s words, nodded slowly. Vellok stood up and turned, his crimson robes rustling softly, and led the way towards the door to Rattan office. Vellok opened the door to Rattan surprise he was not welcomed with the familiar passage he was used to, instead his door in Vellok’s hands seemed to have changed and what emerged was a cave.
Beyond lay a narrow, torch-lit passage that descended steeply into the earth. The air grew cooler, heavier, carrying a faint, earthy scent mixed with something metallic, almost ferrous. Rattan followed, his hand instinctively summoning his staff, a gesture for comfort.
The passage opened into a vast, cavernous space. It was not a natural cave, but clearly shaped by someone’s hands, smoothed and yet devoid of the usual Imperial grandeur. Instead, it felt... old. In the center, almost obscured by the shadows, was a colossal, pulsating mass.