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TWL Chapter 385: Beneath the Rain, a Name
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 21:10:16 +0000 UTCThe three high-ranking mages, each leading a mage unit, were visibly startled by what they heard.
The northern mages had long been coddled and overpraised—raising a generation of political imbeciles who lived in idle comfort. But it was different with the southern Empire’s mages. They weren’t academic types or hedge wizards. Many served in the military or the court and possessed a keen political instinct.
And what the Emperor had just said… there was a wealth of implication in his words.
The three young mages could only nod in agreement. They dared not comment on strategy.
Only the oldest among them, Xarthisius, was barely qualified to offer advice to the Emperor.
“Your Majesty.”
Xarthisius’ speech was terribly slurred, so he strained to lean closer to the unmoving Emperor—but still kept a careful, respectful distance, hoping his words would reach the Emperor’s ears.
“If the intelligence is correct, then Lannister’s tactics are extremely dangerous for Duke de Wett. The Western Army Group has fewer troops than the Eastern Group and may risk being defeated in the same way. And if all the mage units are concentrated with the Central Army Group, there will be no chance to engage Lannister at all…”
Xarthisius was considered one of the Emperor’s inner circle. Though his frail body rarely allowed him to speak up, every time he did, his words held weight.
But now, the Emperor didn’t seem to hear him at all. He remained motionless, giving no sign of acknowledgment.
Even Xarthisius didn’t dare to say another word.
The three young mages received their orders and swiftly withdrew to rally their respective mage units. As they left, two more figures entered the room, and Xarthisius understood that it was time for him to leave as well.
“Peter.”
The two who entered lowered their heads in unison. Only when summoned did one of them dare to lift his gaze to the Emperor’s back.
“My Executor, I want you to convey my orders to our Marshal.”
Peter nodded, and the Emperor continued: “I’m aware of the upheaval in the Eastern Army Group, and I also know that he lost half of the Ard Feainn Division in Lyria.”
“Tell him—I’m not angry. I’m ashamed. That’s why I want him to send the remaining Ard Feainn Division and the entire Alba Division to Lyria. Take the mages I’ve assigned him as well. I want him to cleanse the Empire’s disgrace, to rebuild the Army Group’s right wing, and to ensure our strategy can continue.”
“Under the Sun’s Gaze, your will is my compass.”
The Executor etched every word of the Emperor’s command into his mind.
Once he confirmed the Emperor had no further instructions, he declared his loyalty aloud once more and respectfully withdrew.
…
Now, only two people remained in the room—the Emperor and one last man.
His name was Stefan Skellen, a coroner and intelligence operative in the Imperial spy network. Unlike the mages and officers who had come before him, he was a figure who lived and worked entirely in the shadows.
And perhaps because of that, facing the Emperor’s back now filled him with dread.
He didn’t know why the Emperor had chosen to speak with him alone.
“Skellen.”
In the suffocating silence, the operative finally heard the Emperor call his name.
“Your Majesty!” he responded loudly and immediately.
“You’ve disappointed me,” came the Emperor’s next words—and Stefan felt his heart nearly stop.
He knew exactly what the Emperor was referring to.
“I gave you a task. A secret one. And instead of handling it personally, you contacted others in an attempt to get it done—though yes, I did give you that authority.”
“You contacted Cahir, and he died on the road from Cintra’s capital to Brokilon. You contacted Rience, and that mage fell in Novigrad. You even turned to Albrich, and he perished in Lyria before he could even begin.”
Stefan had begun to tremble. He heard the Emperor continue: “So you’ve disappointed me. Once, then twice—then a third time. How long has it been since I assigned you this mission?”
“Since before the Cintra Massacre, Your Majesty,” Stefan replied, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping in heavy drops.
“It’s… it’s already been…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence—because the Emperor had turned around.
Stefan didn’t dare lift his head, but even with his eyes downcast, he could feel those eyes—two burning flames—scorching his very being.
“I rarely show this much patience with anyone, Stefan. So this time, you don’t get to make your own plans. I will assign you your next action personally.”
This was his final chance.
The operative knew: if he failed in a mission directly assigned by the Emperor himself, he wouldn’t be coming back.
“You are my compass, Your Majesty!” Stefan shouted.
Emhyr gave no comment on the show of loyalty.
“I know you’ve made a number of friends in the North while trying to complete my task. Including one who was once a ‘friend’ of mine.”
That line made the operative flinch again—he knew the Emperor had him completely figured out.
“I want you to find that mutual friend of ours. Tell him: Lannister has obtained that power. He has grown. And the Young Lion is in the town of Brokilon. I will use my troops to lure Lannister and his soldiers away. I want him to seize this opportunity and strike.”
“Tell him—this is also his final chance. If he succeeds, I will grant him the governorship I once promised. If he fails, well… you both know how I deal with failure.”
The Emperor’s words were slow and deliberate.
Stefan carved every syllable into his heart with a devotion deeper than to his own mother’s name.
He bowed deeply—and took his leave.
Outside the Emperor’s study, he realized his hands were still shaking.
He knew his troubles were far from over.
In fact, they might just be beginning.
He would head north, under the guise of an imperial operative, to seek out the Emperor’s former 'friend'—the infamous northern mage: Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.
But before that, he needed to gather as many additional allies as he could.
…
Once the Empire’s top intelligence operative had left the study, Emperor Emhyr turned once more to face the window.
As always, he stared at the rain outside—lost in thoughts no one could read.
After a long silence, he raised the same war report he had already read countless times, scanning it word by word.
The guards believed His Majesty was seething over the collapse of the Eastern Army Group.
In the orders he’d just given to the mages, executor, and operative, there hadn’t been a single word about Duke aep Dahy, that aging noble of high rank and influence.
But only the Emperor knew where his attention truly lay.
“Lannister…” he murmured the name, and his thoughts drifted backward.
Back to his days in Cintra, disguised as Prince Duny.
He remembered that Queen Calanthe had a younger brother who bore that name—and that brother had a son a few years older than his daughter, Cirilla.
That golden-haired brat had received some early education at court, and even accompanied them to Skellige during a holiday trip. Calanthe had been quite fond of the boy.
Just as no one could have foreseen what would become of Prince Duny, Emhyr himself had never imagined that same boy would one day pose such a threat to his ambitions.
“Elder Blood…”
The words escaped his lips in a softer tone now—so quiet that no one else in the room could hear them.
But the guards did see his eyes sharpen.
They transformed into something fierce, blazing, and untouchable—radiating the commanding presence they all knew too well.
The moment every guard bowed their head, the Emperor fell silent again.
Then, his lips moved faintly—he seemed on the verge of uttering a third word…
But in the end, only a nearly inaudible breath escaped.
None of the guards saw it—
But in that fleeting moment, as that sound left his lips, the Emperor’s gaze suddenly softened.
From fire, it became water.
Like the rain outside his window, falling ceaselessly, impossible to hold back.
If someone had dared to lean in and press their ear close to the Emperor’s lips just now, they might have barely made out the sound of a single name.
That name was: Pavetta.
But the emotion of that moment vanished as quickly as it came.
When the guards finally dared to lift their eyes again, what they saw was once more that same resolute figure—ever-ambitious, the Emperor who in the eyes of Nilfgaardian soldiers shone like the Sun—the White Flame, feared by all his enemies.
He gazed out at the curtain of rain, and beyond it, the Yaruga River—and past its winding flow, to Cintra, which it eventually reached.
