Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1271, Redania – The Shadow of Fear

The whispers began subtly, a chill wind rustling through brittle leaves. "Sorceresses," they hissed. "Witches. Manipulators of dark forces." King Radovid, a young man with eyes that burned with fervent conviction, listened. He had always been wary of magic, of the power it wielded, the secrets it kept. The Lodge of Sorceresses, with their veiled agendas and their influence over kings, had always unsettled him. The Thanedd coup had solidified his distrust.

Now, with the Lodge weakened and fractured, Radovid saw his opportunity. Fear, like a contagion, spread through the land. Stories of curses, dark rituals, mages consorting with demons, filled the common folk's imaginations. Radovid, ever the astute politician, recognized the power of this fear. He could channel it, weaponize it, use it to solidify his rule. The disappearances of mages only fueled the flames of suspicion.

"The time has come," he declared to his advisors, his voice ringing with righteous indignation. "The mages have held sway for too long. They have manipulated our kings, corrupted our courts, and threatened the very fabric of our kingdom. We will cleanse Redania of their dark influence."

And so, the witch hunts began. At first, they were sporadic, isolated incidents. Accusations whispered in hushed tones, trials conducted in secret. But soon, they escalated. Fueled by Radovid's rhetoric and the public's growing fear, the hunts became organized, systematic. Inquisitors, their faces masked, their methods brutal, roamed the land, seeking out those suspected of witchcraft.

1271, Aretuza – The Gathering Storm

The news reached Aretuza like a thunderclap. The whispers, the rumors, the disappearances… it all coalesced into a terrifying reality. The witch hunts had begun.

Tissaia de Vries stood in the council chamber, her face grim. "This is madness," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "Radovid has unleashed a reign of terror upon our sisters."

"We must act," Margarita Laux-Antille declared, her voice ringing with determination. "We cannot stand idly by while our sisters are persecuted."

"But what can we do?" Ida asked, her voice filled with despair. "We are scattered, weakened. We are no match for Radovid's forces."

"We must unite," Francesca Findabair said, her voice barely audible. "We must stand together against this tyranny."

"But how?" Sabrina Glevissig asked, her voice laced with desperation. "The Lodge is fractured. Trust has been broken. How can we possibly unite against such a powerful enemy?" The recent disappearances of their own members hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to their vulnerability.

Tissaia sighed. "We must find a way," she said. "Our survival depends on it. We must reach out to our sisters, rebuild our alliances, and prepare for the storm that is coming. But we must also be discreet. Radovid's paranoia is growing. He sees enemies everywhere. We cannot afford to give him any more reason to target us."

1271, Castlevania, Velen

I watched the witch hunts unfold from the shadows of Castlevania, a detached observer of the unfolding tragedy. Radovid's fear-mongering, the public's hysteria, the brutal efficiency of the inquisitors… it was a textbook example of how fear could be manipulated to control the masses. The disappearances of mages, which I had orchestrated, had provided the perfect fuel for Radovid's flames.

The Lodge, weakened and divided, was no match for Radovid's crusade. They were being hunted, imprisoned, and even burned at the stake. Their power, their influence, their very existence, was being systematically erased. And they suspected nothing.

"A predictable outcome," I murmured to myself. "They clung to their power for too long, became complacent, arrogant. They failed to see the storm gathering on the horizon. They were so busy looking for external threats, they never noticed the enemy within."

The witch hunts served my purpose. They further weakened the Lodge, making them even more vulnerable to my influence. They also created a climate of fear and uncertainty, a perfect breeding ground for my own plans. And it distracted attention from my own activities.

1271, Redania – The Inquisitor

The Inquisitor, his face hidden behind a mask, his eyes burning with zealotry, surveyed the scene before him. A group of women, their faces etched with terror, huddled together, awaiting their fate. They had been accused of witchcraft, of consorting with demons, of practicing dark magic. The recent disappearances, they whispered, were proof of the mages' dark influence.

"Confess!" he shouted, his voice ringing with righteous fury. "Confess your sins, and you may yet be spared."

The women wept and pleaded, denying the accusations, begging for mercy. But the Inquisitor was unmoved. He had heard their lies before. He knew the truth. They were witches, servants of darkness, and they had to be purged.

"Let this be a lesson to all who would dabble in the dark arts," he declared. "Let this fire cleanse the land of their evil influence."

And with that, he gave the order. The torches were lit, and the flames roared to life, consuming the accused in their fiery embrace. The screams of the innocent mingled with the cheers of the crowd, a chilling testament to the power of fear.

1271, Castlevania, Velen

The flames rose high into the night sky, casting an eerie glow across the land. The screams of the condemned echoed through the darkness, a chilling symphony of fear and despair. I watched the spectacle from my vantage point, my expression unreadable. The witch hunts were a brutal spectacle, but they were also a necessary step. The old order had to be destroyed before a new one could rise.

"The old ways are dying," I whispered. "And a new order is rising. And they will never suspect… me."