Chapter 1: Declaration

Antony Sergis frowned, re-reading the short message on his phone. He’d just parked when Vasslan sent him yet another text. Variations on a theme, and news of no news.

Since Yarosh Horvat had utterly failed to perform his simple task nearly a month ago, all attempts to locate or even identify this new True Mage had consistently met with ... problems. Every time a Seer tried to scry the upstart, the spell would end up focusing on some random individual in the middle of performing some vulgar act. It was never the same person twice, but the acts were similar, often related to scatology, bestiality, or some furiously masturbating octogenarian. It was clearly not a coincidence, but he had no idea how it was accomplished. Scrying was a rare ability that required extraordinary skill and talent, and while wards existed to protect some things from prying eyes, he was not aware of any spell that could redirect a Seer’s awareness ... especially in such a specific, categorical way. It had gotten to the point that no small number of professional Seers had flatly refused to try again.

I would probably be amused by it if it weren’t so fucking inconvenient, he mused. For the tenth time in half as many days, that blowhard Vasslan had reached out to him about another attempt to scry based upon new criteria that had failed in the most predictably graphic way.

Like I care. Antony knew it was a matter of time before they found this newbie, and he had already made arrangements to paint him as a terrorist with the FBI and Interpol. Once that happened, the various governments of the world would track the bastard down for him. There was no rush. Vasslan was just sore that the fellow had actually managed to escape his “elegant” assassination strategy and was trying to save face; but that face was well and truly gone, and there was no recovering from it.

Antony pocketed his phone and shut down his car. An Audi RS6 Avant, black of course. A car of status, of wealth, of understated power. He felt it fitting for him, and potentially a warning to his adversaries and rivals. Still considering the problem of the new True Mage, he strolled through the parking garage towards the elevators that would bring him to his 11th story condo. He owned the entire floor. Actually ... that wasn’t accurate; he owned the entire building, but the 11th floor was “home”.

Unlike most Masters, Antony was not a mage by calling. Magic did not excite him, didn’t drive his ambitions. He felt no sense of wonder wielding these mysterious, often exhaustively complex abilities. A second generation Russian mobster living in northern New Jersey, he had seen magic simply as a tool to increase and maintain his power ... and it had worked perfectly for this.

His father was a small-time gangster whose single greatest achievement was wooing his wife Svetlana, Antony’s mother. She, young, naive, and desperately, helplessly in love with the worst sort of man, was actually a trained mage, and she had secretly taught the young Antony a great deal before dying suddenly in an open daylight ambush targeting his father. A profound lesson learned at this point was that magic really didn’t perform well against bullets, but the magic of luck could not be denied. Her husband had survived the ambush without a scratch ... but had no hope of seriously prosecuting Кровная месть, or vendetta.

Antony, however... did. He’d never forgiven his father for putting his mother in that situation, never forgiven him for surviving, and had definitely never forgiven him for giving up on his obligation to seek revenge, but that didn’t mean he accepted the status quo. Using the knowledge his mother had taught him, he ended up killing over 40 people related to the ambush, some of which were only used to punish the actual perpetrators. He had found it immensely satisfying torturing the loved ones of his mother’s assailants to death in front of them while they helplessly flailed against invisible bonds.

That experience had a deep impact on him. Besides establishing a well-respected reputation with the Russian mafia in the greater New York area, it taught him the facility of magic. The efficacy of magic. The power of magic ... bullets notwithstanding. He dove into learning what he could to grow his empire, magic playing a key role, and before he knew it, decades had passed and he was recognized not only as a dangerous Vor v Zakone, or “thief in law” to his gangster brethren, but also as a Master in the Order of Peilistos, commanding hundreds of mages as he chose.

Antony indifferently noticed that the usual ambient traffic noise in the parking garage was surprisingly quiet for the time of day. Was there an accident on the 27? He thought idly as he reached the elevator. Pressing the up arrow, his thoughts returned to the problem of the new True Mage.

It was a shame, really. The True Magi of the past were the pioneers of magic. They could intuit results and design new spells to do exactly what they wanted. It was only through luck and arrogance that the Orders were able to usurp them; the secret records told the story of how close the struggle was, despite the enemy having barely a thousandth of their number, and being caught completely by surprise. How useful would it be to have a True Mage in his pocket! The other orders, the other members of the Pielistos council, they would be forced to take a knee to him if such a creature could be placed under his thumb.

But ... that was beyond dangerous. Already this Пшик had managed to not only thwart their attempt to neutralize him, but immediately afterwards made it practically impossible to gain any information about him through arcane means. He was clearly an amateur, but that made what he was doing, and what he seemed to be capable of doing, even more frightening. No. He could not be allowed to live, even if he could provide enormous benefit as a lapdog.