The Castle Theater, or, as he was more commonly known, the Castle, was one of the pre-Catastrophe buildings in Blackstone. As such, it was built with precious stone and refined architecture instead of wood. Graceful pillars and delicate fixtures melted seamlessly with the velvety smooth surfaces typical of old Truvian style, making the great circular building seem like it had half grown out of a dazzling white mountain and half been sculpted into living rock.

The place had been spared the razing that had befallen so many other places thanks to the pragmatism of the people of the city. The Theatre would have required too much effort to destroy, and the city had far too many problems already. Deciding not to be picky, the citizens converted it into a fortress to use as a redoubt in case the walls were ever breached. Such a thing never happened and so, in time, the place ended up being neglected more and more until it became a little more than a glorified ruin.

By the time the worst warring had passed, the Theater had become part of the mental landscape of the population, and the desire to erase any trace of the past had been swept away by almost two centuries of war. The Theatre was beautiful, destroying would have meant to shoot Blackstone in the leg. Even if it had been built with magic, not all powers were nefarious, wasn’t their priests or the Aethyr’s arts the proof of that? What evil could come from a place devoted to arts?

The answer was simple: nothing. The old Castle wasn’t an accomplice of the sins of the past; more like of an unwilling witness, silent and powerless, just like they had been. If anything, the true shame would have been to let it rot.

And so, the Castle had been returned to its primary function, quickly becoming one of the main attractions of the city and its cultural heart. Traveling companies came from all Avurran and beyond to have a chance to exhibit in the Theatre and there wasn’t a representation that didn’t register the presence of all the city, from the noblest lords to the most humble of farmers.

There wasn’t a poor citizen in Blackstone that didn’t relish the chance to sit at a stool in the stalls, where you could eat a piece of cooked meat or a packet of roasted chestnuts bought at the stands outside, talk to your neighbors and laugh or cheer at the actors performing on stage.

Even the nobles never dared to miss a performance. Theater evenings were the premiere time to meet between peers, exchange gossip, show off, and learn the new fashions. Only official business was almost taboo: the theater was to have fun, not to work more. The place belonged to elegant ladies and ostentatious dandies, not grim warriors and boring politicians. That at least in theory. In truth, many attentive gazes passed during pauses and performances, to see who was invited to which box, who was comfortable with whom, and so on. Conversations were made inside of the well-guarded boxes, conversations were had and instructions passed.

Drama didn’t happen only on stage.

The theater was also a place where coy or interested glances were exchanged and pleasant-looking actors sighted, the same that after representations received gifts from rich admirers or even invitations to parties or of a more discrete nature. Many a scandal had been born at the Theater, with that lady or that lord’s dalliances uncovered. It was always a risky business since actors could easily become scapegoats for their well-connected patrons, but there never was a shortage of youths ready to take the chance. The admiration of a noble was never a thing to sneeze at.

That day, as every Helsday, as the sun went toward its twilight, the Theater was full to the brim with a rowdy crowd. The people in the audience laughed, shouted, or blew on food just taken out of the fire, waiting for the performance to begin.

The air was even more boisterous than usual, the people trying to forget the tension of the last days. There had been a crescendo of criminal activities and gang fighting. People were on edge, and only too eager to have some distraction.

And so, they joked and laughed, trying their best to forget their fears at least for an evening.

Outside, nobles got down from their couches and paraded through the Theater’s entrance. Rich and poor arrived at different times, so that the august classes hadn’t to suffer the crowd and wait too long for the beginning of the performance. Only some, usually the most ostentatious, would be fashionably late.

Time and war had taken their tolls over the aristocracy. Nowhere in sight was to be seen the extravagant opulence that had featured in Old Truvia, with its magical and semi-magical clothes and features. These nobles, not knowing or rejecting those habits, dressed in a more simple manner but still richly, with silks being the premier choice for the summer heat. It was easy to spot the warrior aristocrats of the old guard, with the jeweled swords, heavy boots and ceremonial breastplates, polished to a sheen, and festooned with medals and rosettes with the colors of the city. Severe matrons, dressed in simple gowns, hung at their arms. Compared to them, the Coins, as the new merchant nobility was known, looked like exuberant peacocks beside grim roosters, with their colored mantles, plumed hats and sable gloves, their elegantly-dressed women showing elaborated make-up and hairstyles.

There was an exchange of grins and cold pleasantries, but generally the air didn’t turn heavier than that. Politics had a limited place in theater evenings, at least in public, and everybody was eager to take a break after a week of work and tension.

Slowly, the noble couples made their way into their reserved boxes and took their seats. There was still some time before the beginning, and so young pages trotted down the corridors, carrying invitations to come to that or this box during the first break, or, in the case of highly respected members of the class, the nobles went in person.

It was then that there was a deviation from the usual.

An austere coach, showing no emblems and no colors and with the curtains pulled down, stopped without a sound in front of the Theater. One of the attendants ran to offer welcome, only to be brusquely shooed away by a grim-looking driver, that then opened the door for the passenger.

Pages, put like sentinels by curious masters to see who would arrive late, ran to bring the new: the Guildmaster had arrived at the Castle!

The noble section of the Theater fell to a frenzy of gossip.

The curiosity toward the mysterious newcomer had somewhat simmered during the months from his arrival, blunted and then smothered by the lack of activities and of his presence at the numerous courtesy visits the nobles had done to his mansion. The man seemed always to be busy, delegating to his two attendants the job of catering to the guests. Admittedly, they did well: Crikus’ witticism had made him something of a small idol amongst those that had tried their luck at meeting his master. Still, the continued absence hadn’t been well-received. In time, many came to think of the so-called Guildmaster as an arrogant prick that couldn’t be bothered to be courteous; others were perplexed, and others found their curiosity only increase.

Interest toward the man had picked once again with the sudden buying spree, with especially the most financially invested entrepreneurs starting to take a look at the newcomer, only to slowly die down once again.

Now, it surged back, together with a flurry of questions and wonders. Had the Guildmaster finally decided to grace the good society with his presence? Did it mean the beginning of something important? Everybody wondered, everybody guessed. Nobody gave invitations. They had already offered courtesy to the man. Let him be the one to make the first step now.

Curiosity was at an all-time high, and so many a gaze moved toward a certain box when the man himself made his appearance on the balcony.

As always, the Guildmaster was an austere figure of forbidding sternness. Many shivers were felt as those cold gray eyes scanned the place, their wiry owner standing as tall as a pillar.

It lasted only a little.

The man exchanged some words with his two attendants, then took their seats, planting his gaze on the stage beneath.

There was whispering and commenting - so tall, so mysterious, so arrogant. Have you seen those eyes? How old do you think is he? Do you think he likes theatre? -, but there wasn’t time for anything more.

A hidden orchestra started to play, filling the theatre with a shrill aria.

The show was beginning.

The orchestra gave a last accord and then fell silent. The curtain rose, revealing a bowed man in flamboyant clothes. Silence spread across the audience like oil until all the present were watching him with expectations.

The man straightened up, the bells on his jester hat tinkling softly. A mask in the shape of a smiling face covered his features, his eyes two half-moons of hilarity.

“My dear madames and messieurs,” he began, his voice rising clear into the traditional triple greetings. “We welcome you! We welcome you! We welcome you! To a stage where the past returns to life for your enjoyment and betterment! To a place where time forgets his place and the sun goes back in its eternal journey! Come, please! Follow us as we lead you in this magical world. Follow us amidst tragedies and triumphs, mistakes and righteous choices. Follow us as the stage breathes through us its magic and bring back to life the characters and follies of antiquity. So that you can remember, so that you can learn, so that you laugh. I am Fate, dear audience, and i will be your chaperone in this journey. You can laugh at me and call me an image of a fool’s mind, but be careful, for i laugh at you as well, and my smile never wavers.”

With those last words, the man bowed again and the curtains fell down, hiding him from sight.

The audience broke in murmuring and jeers. Fruit kernels and crumpled packets were thrown. Destiny’s actor always put a shiver in the heart of those that stopped to reflect over his words. People replied with sarcasm, using it as a shield.

The orchestra’s music filled the air with a solemn and deep aria.

Excitation spread amongst the audience. Tonight’s performance was one of the most loved ever: the Catastrophe, of the great Ierus Zan.

The curtain rose once again, showing a completely different vision. The bare stage where Fate smiled was gone, replaced by luxurious backdrops showing Truvian palaces in exquisite details.

Under the orchestra’s notes, a procession of figures paraded on stage. They all wore crowns and diadems and their clothes were rich to the point of decadence. A majestic figure led them, wrapped into luxurious furs and jewels from head to toes. His golden crown sported a diamond the size of an egg, and he was the only one to wear a mask. The white visage was twisted into an expression of pure arrogance.

Jenar the Golden, the last High King of the Old Kingdom. The audience recognized him at once and started to boo.

The procession stopped at the center of the stage. The orchestra gave the last accord, and fell silent.

In the sudden silence, the haughty figure advanced, his gaze snottily sweeping across the audience as he ignored the booing.

“Here we are,” he began after some moment. His voice was loud and clear and full of arrogance, filling the theatre just as much as his towering figure filled the stage. “Here we are, king of the world and of everything our gaze embraces. Nations bow to us, and kings and queens act as our pages and valets.” The members of the procession dutifully abased themselves. “And still, satisfaction escape us, our regal sleep is troubled. Arcont, our most trusted adviser, come to us.”

To the king’s peremptory gesture, a crooked figure detached himself from the procession and scampered to him. Another wave of boos welcomed the infamous adviser of the Last King.

“Your dissatisfaction is my dissatisfaction, my lord and king.” The crooked adviser was the incarnation of simpering servilism. His mask showed a face with the hooked features of a vulture. “I shall fill our mattresses with rocks so that if our king’s sleep is troubled, our will be nothing but constant pain, as befitting of true loyalty to such august personage.”

The king waved dismissively, but it was clear he enjoyed the flattering.

“Yes, august,” he said. “Your words ring true, my advisor. None is more regal than us, more powerful or richer. And still, we are expected to be beholden to someone else. Tell me my loyal advisor, do you think that such a state of things can ever be accepted?”

“Ah, my lord speaks of the Gods.”

“Indeed we do. Your quick understanding pleases us. So tell us, advisor, is it proper for a figure of our undisputed authority to bow to these so-called Gods? These same Gods that our august dynasty has been forced to pay obeisance to from the beginning of time? Is it proper that we, the greatest scion of this greatest of lines, have to put up with the pretense of obedience?”

“Ah, my lord speaks the most crystalline of truths!” The advisor quickly agreed, head bobbing up and down. “After all, don’t the Gods rely on His Majesty for their temples? Don’t they have to rely on His Majesty’s gracious permission to be worshipped inside of our glorious Kingdom? And what it this Kingdom if not the world itself? And what is a God without worshippers if not a powerless phantom? It‘s only obvious that His Majesty‘s dissatisfaction is nothing but the truth finally uncovered to the light of day.”

“You read our mind, advisor, and that pleases us greatly. It’s our intention to surpass all our predecessors. We intend to rectify this unjust situation and raise our crown above the Gods themselves.”

“A most magnificent of undertaking, my liege. For humbleness is nothing but the province of weaklings and cretins.”

“Indeed. So tell us, advisor, how should we go to bring this undertaking of ours to its happy conclusion?”

The advisor rubbed his hands, looking like a child that had been given candies for free. “The ways are many, my liege, waiting only for the one with sufficient courage and strength to choose them.

“Speak then, for we have courage and strength more than anyone else.”

“Truth more clear and noble has never been uttered, and we wouldn’t dare to give our King but the most swift of obedience. There are powers, my liege. Powers that the pretender Gods, without a doubt fearing His Majesty, forbid us from touching upon. Powers of twisting and controlling and dominating. Powers that give men control over the world and everything into it.”

“And so we will be as Gods! Ah, adviser, your words pour into our mind like the sweetest of nectars. Still, we must ask, what would the pretender Gods’ reaction be if we delve into these powers you speak of?”

“What but the whimperings of impostors that see their deception finally unraveling?” The adviser swept his arm in a contemptuous gesture. “And aren’t the armies of Truvia an instrument of absolute power? What even the Gods can against His Majesty’s endless legions? At His whim, we will build chains strong enough to bind the God of War; we will gather a collection of understanding so vast that the God of Knowledge will fall whimpering before it. By delving in the powers i spoke of His Majesty’s power will all but soar, until you, my King, will be able to look upon the pretenders as ants, free to crush them at your slightest leisure.”

“Your words put to flight any last concern holding us back.” The King all but glowed with gloating. “Still, a last obstacle to our will must be addressed. We don’t doubt in the slightest that the idiotic masses will be unable to understand the grandeur of our visions. Tell us, wise adviser. How should we proceed to stop their foolishness from hindering our plans?”

Arcont chuckled maliciously. “What is the people if not puppets ready to dance to the King’s tune? The powers we will uncover we will use to rob the masses of the need to work and think until they will be fat and lazy and decadent, unheeding of the God’s pleas and as clay to be shaped by His Majesty’s will.”

The King laughed, the sound reverberating into the Theatre. “Adviser, we are pleased. We are most pleased. The last of our doubts flees like a thief in the night. Crystal as a clear pond, the future uncovers itself before our eyes. Yes! Yes! My mind is set. Let the marvelous plan start at once. Let’s delve and twist and take until the Gods themselves have to bow before my Crown.” He pointed forward. “Go, wise adviser, start preparations at once. We give you lease to conduct everything as you will consider best. Whip and kill if necessary, for we won’t tolerate any delay to our ascension.”

The advisor didn’t reply. Holding his head down, he walked backward until he disappeared, the procession of regal figures coming after him.

The King remained alone, a towering figure of dazzling splendor.

He looked around, eyes gleaming with greed.

“Our doubts have fled,” he said. “Our course is set. Our will is a machine that grinds mountains to dust and drink seas to the last drops. Nothing will stand in our way. We will sit on that greatest of thrones, even if the world has to burn for it. Let all that stand in our way be trampled and forgotten. The King’s will be done.”

And with that, he turned, his beautiful mantle whipping around his gilded frame, and swept out of the stage.

The orchestra let out a tenebrous accord, foretelling dire things to come. The curtain closed, announcing the end of the scene.

The audience erupted in cheers and discussions, the people exchanging comments on the actors’ quality. On the noble balconies, fans were waved against the stuffy heat and polite comments were exchanged.

Many glances were thrown toward the balcony of the newcomer, all finding the Guildmaster in the same exact position he had taken at the beginning of the representation. Cartus was like a statue, his gaze unerringly fixed on the now-empty stage. People wondered about the storm of emotions that seemed to rage in those gray eyes: admiration? Rage? Outrage? What was the strange man feeling? Theories flew and were discarded with the same speed.

The distance didn’t allow anybody to notice the almost spasmodic tightness in his jaw, or how his hand had gripped the armrest of his seat until the knotty knuckles had turned white and the wood had cracked and splintered.

The moment passed. The curtain rose, signaling the continuation of the play.

Led by music and a plethora of characters of old, the audience was led through the tragicomedy that would bring the Catastrophe. The High King was at the center, a towering, overbearing figure of splendor and arrogance that filled the stage every time he appeared. Friends and family tried to dissuade him from his mad purpose, heroes rose to try and stop him, martyrs pleaded with him. All in vain. The King would accept no obstacle to his dream of dominance. Everyone that got in his way was mercilessly trampled. Still, from time to time even in his iron heart doubts arose, and in those moments Arcont was there to push them back with his whispers, stoking back the King’s lust for power until his will was once again a compact lump of metal.

One scene followed just the crooked advisor. With deep, ominous music accompanying him, the little man hobbled away from the dazzling rooms of royalty and into darker and darker recesses of the great castle of Truvia. He walked cobweb-infested corridors and passed through hidden entrances, invisible doors swinging silently open to let him pass.

Eventually, he reached a gloomy room. A single candle burned at the center of an expanse of gray rock, painting flickering shadows over a multitude of misshapen and broken statues. The rest was nothing but shapes in the darkness.

The advisor warily looked around.

“Master,” he said, his raspy voice tentatively echoing into the darkness. “Your apprentice comes to bring you news.”

His words sank into the darkness like stones in a well. For a moment, as the audience drew their breaths, nothing happened. Then, one of the statues seemed to come alive. Ponderously it shifted, stopping into a different position. Two eyes appeared in the darkness, burning like coals of fire.

Not a whisper could be heard amidst the audience. All watched, entranced.

A single word echoed in the silence, heavy and laden with menace, coming from a rumbling voice that could hardly be called human.

“Speak.”

Arcont shrank back as hit. “Fate turns as you ordained,” he said with a mix of eagerness, hurry and fear. “The fool King dances to our tune and soon our plan will bear fruit.”

A moment of silence passed, a moment laden with an ominous threat.

“Do not presume, apprentice,” the voice graveled eventually. “This plan is the fruit of my intellect, my silent, indefatigable work hidden from the light. There are and have been many apprentices, but there is only one Master. Kneel before your God and Master, apprentice, and tell me who i am.”

Realizing his mistake, Arcont was quick to obey, prostrating himself until his forehead touched the cold ground.

“You are the Sorcerer,” he intoned in awe. “Immortal transcendent of the centuries, enemy of the Gods, master of the dark arts. You brought the gift of the profane magic upon this land and built this realm, puppeteering its kings from the shadows of your den. All for the day when they would be strong and arrogant enough to challenge the Gods for you. And me!” The simpering advisor clasped his hands together above his heads like he was praying to a forbidding God. “I am nothing but your most humble servant, the tool through which your will works upon the world. I am just the mouth through which your voice is heard.”

“That is so.” The voice said with forbidding finality. Then, it remained silent for some moments.

“The moment approaches,” it declared finally. “Soon, this Old Kingdom puppet of mine will quail under the Gods’ vengeance. Its armies will fight back and, as chaos consumes the land, i will strike.” The voice rose, its hollow timbre rumbling like an avalanche. “A God will fall and i will rise. Godhood, so long negated to me, will finally be mine!”

The Sorcerer was presented as an inhuman force of evil, devoid of those human traits that even the King showed to possess. Cold as the darkness, manipulative and devious, ha cared only for his ascension to godhood, an ambition he had pursued with a cold single-mindedness for all the centuries of his innatural life. His long delving into the dark had made so that humanity was lost on him. The Sorcerer was a true monster, a negative force incarnated into flesh, a spider standing at the center of a web of lies, knowledgeable to each vibration of each strand, dispensing death like the God he aspired to be.

As the dialogue continued, the duo’s relationship was established: an omnipotent, ruthless Master and a devoted sycophant, desperate to curb favor and hoping for a future reward. While the King still retained a form of greatness and lingering humanity, these two were depicted as negatively as possible. They were the true villains of the story, leeches sucking the marrow of the Kingdom of lies they had helped to establish.

During a lull in the action, while the orchestra played, some of the nobles in the balconies noticed a most unusual fact: the Guildmaster had stood up from his seat. White-faced, his stiff silhouette made him look less of a man and more of a block of ice sculpted with human features. His face was an expressionless mask, but the clutched fists, the clenched jaw and the eyes - the eyes! Gleaming with a fire that made them look like burning coals - spoke of a storm of emotions raging within.

All that saw him at that moment were profoundly impressed by the sheer magnitude of emotion that emanated from him, like if the man was haloed by a corona of cold light.

Beneath, the play continued.

As the mortal obstacles were cruelly put away, with chains and heated iron and cold sword, the design of the King and his advisor progressed steadily. Truvia flourished as never before, with flying carriages carrying goods between cities and the light of the sun and stars readily available to anyone. Still, as riches grew, souls declined. Without the need to work, people turned to decadence and forbidden pursuits or fell to despondence and vice.

The temples of the Gods, once filled with the smell of incense and the prayers of the devoted, fell to silence, while gambling dens and halls of magic filled with supplicants and lost souls. Golden palaces rose, dazzling in their opulence, but at the same time, the heart of Truvia grew rotten and dark.

This state of things progressed to the point that even the Gods took notice.

For three days and three nights, Aria, the Golden Mountain, shone with the combined light of the Gods gathered into a council.

A decision was reached. A messenger would be sent to the High King, to advise and warn and caution. The role fell upon Antares, a luminous servant of the Sun.

Shining with joyous light, the spirit descended the Mount’s slopes and into the mortal realm.

Taking the shape of a man from whom brow radiated the light of dawn, he came at the King’s court. He appeared amidst the royal revelries. Nobles and sorcerers shed away from him in fright but not the King, that stood proudly on his throne, demanding the stranger’s identity.

Smiling, Antares presented himself, then offered the Gods’ words: darkness had fallen upon the Great Kingdom, its source hidden even from the eyes of the divine. Man should beware not to think himself the equal of those on high, lest he came to regret his choices. There was no shame in recognizing one’s station, no abasement of oneself, the messenger said. It was in unbound arrogance that laid folly, for at the end of its path only tragedy awaited. The King should examine his actions, reconsider them, steer away from the wrong path and carry his subjects with him back into the light.

Jenar was unmoved by the Messenger’s warnings.

Did the Gods hold the King of the World in such low esteem that they sent a lowly messenger to bring counsel? Let a God come before him, or he wouldn’t even consider whatever words they launched at him.

The messenger, reading the stubborn arrogance in the King’s heart, didn’t press. He bowed and wordlessly left the court.

For three times Antares returned before Jenar, each time carrying words of caution, and each time he was rebuffed, the King’s heart refusing to listen. Each time he appeared, the divine Messenger countenance had become darker, his words turning from counsel to warnings. In fact, as he stood in Aria, carrying the King’s refusal, the Gods’ darkening thoughts fell upon him, changing him. He became somber and morose, his noble countenance turning sallow and pale. His light, once proud and shining, turned into cold darkness, his smile became a grimace of unending sadness.

When he appeared for the last time before Jenar, Antares was no more. A dark, cloaked figure stood in his place, Grimok, the Voice of the Nightwalker.

With a sibilant voice, the messenger carried threats and warnings. No more would the Gods offer their hand. No more would they resort to words. Would the King listen or drown into the darkness of his own making?

Jenar’s arrogance and pride, stoked by Arcont’s whispers, was invincible. He rebuffed the messenger, called the Gods usurpers and pretenders, claimed the mantle of divinity and rulership for himself.

With a contemptuous gesture, he ordered Grimok thrown in chains, but before the guards could grab hold of him, the messenger launched a terrible screech, a sound of pure anguish, and disappeared.

He would not return, and so the path to tragedy was sealed.