Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Early 1261, Castlevania, Velen

The Academy was thriving. The first generation of my Order had begun their transformation, no longer frightened children but disciplined students, trained in the mastery of magic, combat, and strategy. The settlement surrounding Castlevania had grown into a hidden city, concealed from the outside world by powerful wards, unseen by kings, spies, or soldiers. It was a testament to what could be achieved when magic was nurtured, not feared.

But knowledge, power, and a city were not enough. Influence was the true key to shaping the world. While the Northern Kingdoms and Nilfgaard played their political games, my reach had begun to extend beyond the veil. It was not yet time to reveal Castlevania's existence, but that did not mean I would remain passive. There was much to do, much to manipulate from the shadows.

I had spent years building in secret. Now, it was time to expand my web, to weave my influence into the fabric of the world.

Mid 1261, Castlevania, Velen

The first step was information. Empires did not fall in battle alone. They fell because of the cracks that formed within them—greedy nobles, scheming sorcerers, betrayals from within. War was inevitable, but war was not won on the battlefield alone. It was won in the silence of hidden rooms, in the whispers of spies, in the knowledge of what was coming before anyone else saw it.

I established the first true intelligence network of Castlevania. My butler-class homunculi, already spread throughout the world as merchants, healers, and travelers, had been gathering information for years. They were tireless, never aging, never resting, able to embed themselves into societies without suspicion. They were my long-term assets, my silent observers.

But that was not enough. I needed more eyes, more ears, more agents who could move freely without drawing attention, who could adapt to changing circumstances. I needed those who could blend in, who could become ghosts in the machine of the world.

I turned to the students. The most promising among them, those whose abilities leaned toward deception, illusion, and manipulation, were given a new purpose. Not all mages were meant for battle. Some were meant for espionage. They were the subtle instruments of my will.

A handful of them were chosen. They learned disguise, infiltration, the art of deception. They were taught how to forge identities, how to listen without being noticed, how to blend into the world beyond Castlevania's walls. They learned the subtle art of reading body language, of detecting lies, of exploiting weaknesses.

"The world sees what it wants to see," I explained to them during a training session focused on illusion magic. "It believes what it is told. Your task is to control what they see, what they believe. You are the weavers of illusions, the manipulators of perception. Information is your weapon, and deception is your shield."

And when they were ready, they were sent out. Their orders were simple: Observe. Listen. Learn. Do not act unless commanded. They were to be my shadows, my eyes and ears in the courts of kings and the back alleys of cities.

By the time the year ended, Castlevania had spies embedded in Nilfgaard, Redania, Temeria, and Kovir. And none of them even knew it.

Late 1261, Redania

One of my agents, a young woman named Lyra who possessed a preternatural talent for mimicry, sent a report. King Vizimir of Redania was preparing for war—not against Nilfgaard, not yet, but against his own nobility. His court was filled with vipers, men who whispered of rebellion, of shifting alliances. The mage Philippa Eilhart, a dangerous woman with her own ambitions, was working in the shadows to keep her king in power.

"She is a threat," Lyra's report concluded. "She is intelligent, resourceful, and deeply entrenched within the Redanian court. She suspects something is amiss, though she has not yet connected it to Castlevania."

"She is dangerous," I conceded, reading the report in my study. "Too intelligent. Too perceptive. But she is also predictable. She seeks power through politics, through control over the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. She believes she is playing the game, but she is merely a pawn on a larger board."

I did not need to manipulate kings and courts directly. I needed to manipulate the forces that controlled them. Philippa, with her ambition and her intricate web of influence, was a perfect instrument.

"Let Vizimir scheme," I murmured, a plan forming in my mind. "Let Philippa play her games. Redania is already weak, riddled with internal conflict. A little nudge in the right direction, a whisper here, a rumor there, and it will crumble from within."

And when the time came, I would break it.

Early 1262, Nilfgaard

The Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis, was a patient man. He moved carefully, methodically, weaving his plans for conquest like a spider weaving its web. His empire was vast, his armies disciplined, his influence absolute.

But even Nilfgaard had flaws. Through my spies, I learned of rivalries within the Nilfgaardian court. Generals who despised one another. Noble families who pretended loyalty but secretly worked against the Emperor, scheming for their own gain. These were weaknesses I could exploit.

And then there was the White Flame himself—Emhyr. He was searching for something. Or rather, someone. Ciri. The Lion Cub of Cintra. A child of prophecy, a girl with powers even I did not fully understand. He sought to claim her, to use her for his own ends.

"He is obsessed with her," reported one of my Nilfgaardian agents, a former Nilfgaardian officer named Darius. "He believes she is the key to his destiny, the linchpin of his empire."

"His obsession is his weakness," I replied, considering the implications. "It blinds him to other threats, other possibilities."

This was useful. Emhyr's focus on Ciri meant he was distracted. It meant Nilfgaard's full power would not be unleashed until she was in his grasp. That gave me time. Time to prepare. Time to strengthen Castlevania while the world still did not know I existed.

But I would have to move carefully. Because if I was watching Emhyr… then he was watching the world as well. He was a cunning and ruthless man, and he would not tolerate any perceived threats to his power.

Mid 1262, Castlevania, Velen

The first phase of my influence campaign had begun. Information flowed freely into Castlevania now—trade routes, troop movements, hidden conspiracies. But intelligence alone was not enough. Information was only valuable if it could be used.

I needed leverage. Power meant nothing if I could not wield it at the right moment. So I began acquiring assets. Gold. Rare materials. Magical artifacts. Resources that kingdoms waged war over. These were the tools I would use to manipulate events from the shadows.

Merchants who had once worked for Redania or Temeria now unknowingly funneled their goods through my hidden networks. I did not make my presence known, but I controlled the flow of supplies in certain regions, subtly influencing economies without kings ever realizing why. I was becoming the hidden hand that guided the market.

And then there were the mercenaries. Men who fought not for loyalty, but for coin. They did not know who they worked for. They simply received payment, instructions, and followed orders. They were my instruments of chaos, my deniable force.

"They are useful," I remarked to one of my students, a young man named Gareth who had shown a talent for logistics and organization. "They are expendable. They are the perfect tools for sowing discord and confusion."

"But they are also unreliable," Gareth pointed out. "Mercenaries are driven by greed. They can be bought."

"Indeed," I replied. "But I control the purse strings. And I ensure their loyalty through other means. Let us just say that they understand the consequences of betrayal."

And when I needed something done, something that could not be traced back to Castlevania, I had them.

Late 1263, The Fall of Cintra

The war began. Nilfgaard marched. The North burned. Cintra fell swiftly and brutally. Queen Calanthe, proud and defiant, threw herself from the castle walls rather than be taken prisoner. Her kingdom was reduced to ruins in mere days, her people slaughtered or enslaved. The speed and ferocity of the Nilfgaardian assault shocked the North.

My spies reported everything. They saw Ciri escape. They saw the brutality of the Nilfgaardian advance. They witnessed the desperation of the Northern kingdoms.

"The slaughter was… horrific," reported Darius, his voice grim. "The Nilfgaardians showed no mercy. It was a massacre. They… they even targeted civilians."

"War is rarely merciful," I replied, though even I was taken aback by the sheer ruthlessness of the Nilfgaardian advance. "But this… this was different. This was a calculated act of terror, designed to break the will of the North, to instill fear and despair."

Ciri's escape was… unexpected. She was a wild card, a variable I had not fully accounted for. Her existence, her potential, was a disruption to my carefully laid plans. A child of prophecy, a descendant of Elder Blood, a conduit of unimaginable power – she was a force of nature in human form, unpredictable and uncontrollable. Emhyr's obsession with her was understandable, if misguided. He sought to control her power, to harness it for his own ambitions. But I knew better. Power like that could not be controlled. It could only be guided, or perhaps… unleashed.

She had vanished into the wilds, lost, hunted by both Nilfgaard and the remnants of Cintra's forces. Her trail was difficult to follow, obscured by the chaos of war and the desperate flight of refugees. My spies were searching for her, of course. Not to capture her, not yet. But to observe. To understand. To assess the true extent of her abilities.

"She is more than just a child," reported Lyra, who had been tracking Ciri's movements through the war-torn countryside. "She… she seems to be connected to something larger, something ancient. There are whispers of visions, of prophecies, of… destiny."

"Destiny is a construct," I scoffed, though her words gave me pause. "A story told to give meaning to chaos. But even stories can have power. And Ciri… she is a walking story, a living legend in the making."

I watched, waiting. She was a variable. A powerful one. But she was not my primary concern. Not yet. The larger game was still in play.

The world was falling into chaos. And chaos… was opportunity.

Early 1264, Castlevania, Velen

The war had changed the world. Even in its short, brutal duration, it had irrevocably altered the landscape of the Northern Kingdoms. The old order was crumbling, its foundations shaken by the Nilfgaardian onslaught.

The North was in disarray. The kings of Redania, Temeria, and Kaedwen, finally realizing the true extent of the Nilfgaardian threat, scrambled to prepare for the next inevitable battle. Fear spread like plague, infecting every level of society. Refugees clogged the roads, tales of Nilfgaardian atrocities fueling panic and resentment. The fragile alliances forged in the face of the enemy were already beginning to fray, old rivalries resurfacing.

And through it all, Castlevania remained hidden, a silent observer, a hidden power. A spider at the center of a growing web.

But I was no longer just a shadow. I was pulling the strings now, subtly influencing events, manipulating the course of the war from behind the scenes. My actions were becoming bolder, my influence more direct.

My spies moved freely across the war-torn lands, gathering information, influencing decisions, planting seeds of doubt and conflict. They whispered in the ears of kings and generals, sowing discord and mistrust. They manipulated events, turning allies against each other, weakening the North from within.

My mercenaries fought in skirmishes, shifting the tide of small battles without kingdoms ever realizing why. They were the hidden hand of fate, tipping the scales in subtle but significant ways. A sudden shift in troop deployments, a well-timed ambush, a crucial supply line disrupted – these were the small victories that could win a war.

"The North is ripe for the taking," remarked Gareth, reviewing the latest reports from my agents. "They are fractured, demoralized, and their leadership is… incompetent."

"They are playing a game of chess with pawns," I replied. "They are blinded by their petty ambitions, their ancient grudges. They do not see the larger game being played."

I was everywhere. And yet, I was nowhere. My influence was pervasive, yet untraceable. No one suspected the hand that guided their fate.

The world still did not know my name. But soon, they would.

Because I was done watching. The time for subtle manipulation was coming to an end. The war had created the perfect environment for my grand design to unfold. The established powers were weakened, distracted, vulnerable. The chaos was spreading, creating fertile ground for my vision to take root.

Now, it was time to shape history itself. It was time for Castlevania to rise. It was time for the world to learn the true meaning of power.