"I don't want to go to Kamar-Taj!"
Solomon wore a dark expression as he personally escorted Merlin onto the assault dropship. He was going to oversee this troublemaker's transport himself—straight to the Ancient One.
"Stop whining," he said coldly, showing none of the respect one might expect toward an elder. The fruit juice he had offered earlier was already more hospitality than Merlin deserved. "Or I'll call Balthazar."
Merlin immediately deflated.
His former apprentice had endured a thousand years of his pranks, making Merlin more than a little reluctant to face him again. "He's doing well now, isn't he?" Merlin muttered under his breath. "He even has a wife now, and I—"
"I'm sure he'd be more than happy to beat you senseless, Master Merlin."
"Please! Don't send me to Kamar-Taj!"
Abandoning all dignity, Merlin sprawled on the floor, flailing his limbs like a child throwing a tantrum.
"I can train your spellcasters!" he shouted. "One! No, two! Two top-tier spellcasters!"
"And then you'd take them to Un'Goro, wouldn't you?"
Having been warned by the Ancient One, Solomon wasn't about to fall for Merlin's tricks.
"Tell me how I can meet the Earth Mother first," he demanded. "I know Un'Goro is short on people to maintain Chthon's seal, but I think I can solve that problem. Not now, but in the future."
"I don't know!"
Merlin actually seemed prepared to throw himself to the floor again, but under Solomon's sharp gaze, he hesitated.
"The floor is too cold," he grumbled, straightening his robes and settling beside Solomon. "It's all metal."
"The Earth Mother is already aware of your recent achievements. I reported them to Her."
"Don't look so surprised. Prophecy is my specialty," Merlin continued smugly. "Do you not remember my prophecy of the Red Dragon to Vortigern?"
Before Solomon could react, Merlin abruptly placed a hand on his forehead.
"Prophecy!"
—
Solomon barely managed to open his eyes.
He found himself lying on a polished marble floor, bathed in the blood-red glow of a setting sun pouring through a circular stained-glass window.
The place had the solemn air of a religious site. Long banners hung from the walls, bearing symbols of crosses, lilies, skulls, and eagles. From the wooden beams overhead, ropes dangled—each suspending a shadowy figure. Blood dripped from the corpses' feet, landing on the floor with soft, rhythmic splashes.
Drip.
Drip.
Before he could fully grasp what he was seeing, the vision shifted.
A woman knelt before a series of freshly mounded graves, weeping. Each grave was marked by a crude wooden cross.
The pale winter sun illuminated the burial site, as well as the raging fires in the distance.
Unconsciously, Solomon took a step forward.
The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh.
Ahead, flames poured like a river, consuming everything in their path—clouds, streams, even the moisture in the very rocks. Screaming figures stumbled through the inferno, their eyes and mouths spewing fire.
Then, darkness fell.
Not the comforting embrace of a summer night, nor the harsh chill of winter, but an unnatural void—deep, silent, and oppressive.
From the stillness, pale, ghostly flowers bloomed, their petals opening in eerie silence. Wisps of ghostly fire flickered to life at his feet.
Startled, he stumbled back.
His robes trailed to the floor, and a golden sash was tied around his chest.
The darkness stirred. More and more ghostly flames flickered into existence.
In the distance, scattered boulders lay across the open field, and broken branches were strewn about, as if the land had been ravaged by a storm—or a giant, furious after an eternity of imprisonment.
Thunder rumbled far away.
Then came the sound of horns.
Shapes emerged from the distance, moving in eerie unison.
The figures grew closer, their numbers swelling like a rising tide.
They were dead.
From cruel tyrants of antiquity to silk-draped courtesans, from Viking kings in chainmail to turbaned sultans of the East, from powdered nobles to ragged dung collectors—an endless sea of the deceased swarmed toward him.
Their lips moved, murmuring something he could not understand.
They shoved and jostled, their skeletal faces frozen in grim determination.
The grotesque hunger that had once filled their living eyes was now replaced by a vacant, rigid emptiness.
Their high cheekbones jutted sharply, their flesh gaunt and sickly.
Once-opulent garments hung in tatters.
The impoverished dead—British paupers in soot-streaked burial shrouds, French beggars in patched-up shirts and hats—were indistinguishable from the wealthy corpses beside them, all swept forward as if fleeing something even worse behind them.
"Hhh—!"
With all his strength, Solomon swam against the tide, as if drowning in a sea of the dead.
—
Solomon gasped awake.
He struggled to rise, only for the seatbelt of the dropship to restrain him.
Sweat soaked through his robes.
His hands trembled as he waved off the artificial beings rushing to assist him.
The air-conditioning hummed softly, cooling the sweat on his back.
"I didn't expect you to use an illusion to deceive me," he said darkly. "No wonder the Ancient One said your pranks were insufferable."
"That was no prank."
Merlin looked utterly unconcerned, as if the entire ordeal had been as trivial as finishing a slice of cake.
"That was a prophecy, child."
He leaned back.
"It might not even be your prophecy," he added. "It could be someone else's. I don't know exactly what it means—I only know that it was something you needed to see."
"Do you remember those nightmares you used to have?" Merlin asked casually. "The ones of yourself at the harbor? This was the continuation of that dream.
"In truth, your Stigmata was sending you these visions all along. But for the sake of your mental well-being, your teacher had me block part of it.
"In other words, you've always been under the influence of my spell."
"I've been under your spell?"
Solomon frowned.
"How did I never detect an enchantment affecting my mind?"
"Not an enchantment. A ward," Merlin corrected. "I combined it with the Ancient One's protective spells, which is why you never noticed.
"Let me guess—you never bothered to examine the enchantments the Sorcerer Supreme placed on you, did you?"
Solomon muttered under his breath, recalling the protective spells designed to obscure his presence from prophetic sight—and to counteract them if needed.
"Looks like you do know a thing or two," Merlin mused, tapping the rings on Solomon's fingers.
"This ward functions the same way as your three rings—they stabilize your Stigmata. But unlike your rings, my spell isn't as long-lasting, nor does it hold the same symbolic significance."
"Do you know why the Stigmata generate such heat?"
"You're saying too much."
The Ancient One suddenly snapped her folding fan against the table, cutting Merlin off.
"Solomon is human."
She fixed Merlin with a sharp gaze.
"I recognize him as such. He believes he is human. And so, he is human—forever."
"If you say so," Merlin shrugged. "Ignoring reality is not my habit."
"That is the way of Kamar-Taj," the Ancient One stated coolly. "Now leave."
She turned to Solomon.
"There are things you will only learn when the time is right."
Solomon nodded and left the meditation chamber.
Outside, apprentices had gathered in the training yard, marveling at the assault dropship the artificial beings had arrived in.
"I think every sorcerer should carry a gun," Solomon remarked to Mordo. "Or at least a metal staff—one that can fire bullets."
Mordo ignored him, pretending he had just heard nonsense.
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