Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Early 1269, Aretuza, Thanedd Island

The Brotherhood of Sorcerers was in its death throes. Not a sudden, violent end, no clash of armies at Aretuza's gates, but a slow, agonizing decay from within. The cracks, once hairline fractures, had widened into gaping fissures, threatening to shatter the very foundation of their power. For centuries, the Brotherhood had held magic in its iron grip, manipulating kings, dictating the balance of power across the Northern Kingdoms. Mages served as advisors, spies, assassins – their formidable abilities checked only by the delicate web of internal politics and rivalries within the Brotherhood itself.

But the world had shifted beneath their feet. Nilfgaard's relentless advance had proven that raw military might could overcome even the most potent spells, that legions of disciplined soldiers could butcher mages as readily as they had decimated the North's armies. The kings, once reliant on the Brotherhood's arcane services, now eyed them with suspicion, questioning their value in this new, brutal reality.

And looming over it all, a chilling presence, a new power had begun to coalesce in the shadows. A power the Brotherhood couldn't control, couldn't understand, couldn't even properly identify. The whispers had started subtly, a rustle in the hallowed halls of Aretuza and Ban Ard, a hushed exchange between sorcerers clinging to the illusion of their former dominance. The name on their lips, spoken with a mixture of fear and confusion, was not entirely accurate, a misnomer born from rumor and misinformation.

"Castlevania."

Mid 1269, The Vanishing of Sorcerers

Internal strife, bitter rivalries, and the occasional betrayal were nothing new to the Brotherhood. Such things were woven into the very fabric of their existence. But this was different. This was a systematic unraveling.

Mages were vanishing. Not just the young apprentices who had abandoned their training, nor the rogue scholars who preferred the shadows to the rigid structure of the Brotherhood. These were established, powerful mages, individuals who had shaped the course of history for decades.

A senior enchanter from Ban Ard, renowned for his intricate wards and powerful enchantments, had simply ceased to exist. His tower remained untouched, his belongings undisturbed, the magical protections he had woven around his estate still active… yet he was gone.

A respected scholar of Elder Magic from Aretuza, a woman who had unlocked secrets of magic thought lost to time, was found dead in her study, her body petrified, her expression frozen in a mask of terror. A single, ancient text she had been studying was missing – a book whispered to contain forbidden knowledge.

An entire circle of independent sorcerers, those who had dared to reject the Brotherhood's authority and forge their own path, had vanished overnight. Their fortified stronghold was reduced to rubble, as if struck by some immense, unseen force. No survivors, no witnesses.

The pattern was unmistakable, chillingly clear to those who dared to acknowledge it. Someone, something, was systematically dismantling the Brotherhood's power base. And they were doing it with an unnerving, almost supernatural, efficiency, never revealing their hand.

Fear, a corrosive emotion the Brotherhood had long prided itself on transcending, began to fester. For the first time in centuries, the hunters were becoming the hunted.

Philippa Eilhart's POV – The War Within the Brotherhood

Redania, Tretogor, Late 1269

Philippa Eilhart, ever the pragmatist, did not trust fear. Fear bred irrationality, weakness. It transformed powerful individuals into paranoid shadows of their former selves, grasping at phantoms, seeing threats in every corner. And that was precisely what was happening within the Brotherhood.

She sat at the imposing council table in Tretogor, surrounded by men and women who had once held kingdoms in the palm of their hands. Now, they bickered like frightened children, their voices trembling with barely concealed terror.

"We must act!" Armin Zolas, a mage whose influence had once stretched from Temeria to Kovir, slammed his fist on the table. "Too many of our own have disappeared! We cannot stand idly by while we are picked off one by one!"

"And what action do you propose, Armin?" Sabrina Glevissig countered, her arms crossed, her expression skeptical. "We don't even know who is responsible. You want to declare war on a ghost?"

"What about the rumors?" another voice interjected, a nervous tremor in its tone.

Silence descended upon the chamber. They all knew what was coming.

"Castlevania," Philippa said, her voice cutting through the tension, calm and controlled.

Armin scoffed. "A myth, a children's tale."

Philippa's lips curved into a chilling smile. "Tell that to the Nilfgaardian battalion that was annihilated by five unknown mages. Tell that to the kings who now whisper about a hidden city, a place where magic bows to no crown. Tell that to the Brotherhood members who have vanished without a trace."

The room fell silent. They knew she was right. Castlevania was no fairy tale. It was real. And it was a force to be reckoned with. Though the name itself was a misnomer, a product of misinformation and half-truths, the power behind it was undeniable.

Philippa leaned forward, her gaze sweeping across the faces of her colleagues. "We have a choice to make," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "We can continue to bury our heads in the sand, pretending this isn't happening. Or we can face reality and take action."

A long, tense pause. Then, Armin sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. "What do you suggest, Philippa?"

Philippa's smirk was sharp, predatory. "We find them first."

Late 1269, Avalon's Influence Tightens

The Brotherhood had finally grasped the unsettling truth: they were no longer the sole arbiters of magical power in the world. But their realization had come too late. While they convened in secret, while they whispered amongst themselves and desperately sought information, I had already moved. My influence, though subtle, was pervasive.

Many of their own had already turned their backs on the Brotherhood, though they didn't yet realize it. The independent mages who had vanished? They hadn't been eliminated. They had come to me, to Avalon. They had seen the true potential of my city, the power I offered, the security the Brotherhood could no longer provide. And they had made their choice. They had traded their allegiance to a crumbling institution for a place in my ascendant order. The name "Castlevania" was a convenient fiction, a shroud of mystery that masked the true source of their growing unease.

The End of the Brotherhood as They Knew It

The Brotherhood of Sorcerers had reigned supreme for centuries, shaping the destinies of kings, dictating the very laws of magic. But their reign was coming to an end. Their unity was fracturing, their enemies were multiplying, and, most importantly, they had lost control.

Magic no longer belonged to them. It belonged to those who were strong enough, bold enough, to wield it without fear, without the constraints of outdated traditions and internal power struggles. And in due time, the world would come to understand this fundamental truth.

The age of the Brotherhood was over. The age of Avalon had begun. And the world, in its ignorance, would continue to whisper the name "Castlevania," unaware of the true power that lurked in the shadows.