Chapter 63

Margarita Laux-Antille.

One of the most powerful women in the world, and also one of its most beautiful. Noble blood and unmatched magical intelligence had brought her to her station. Yet now, both her calves were stripped of most of their muscle, her body filthy and reeking, confined alongside the brittle bones of her students in a wooden cage. Her fever burned unchecked; the fact that she had survived this long, with wounds festering, spoke volumes of the extraordinary reserves of body and magic she possessed.

But it was useless. The pain from her burning fever and rotting wounds still prevented spellcasting. Kings who wield absolute power treat magic with equal caution for this reason. Ignorant fools imagine sorcerers’ power reaches the heavens, capable of leveling entire knightly orders on a battlefield. Those who know the truth understand: to incapacitate a sorcerer, one does not always need expensive dimeritium. Sometimes a bout of dysentery is enough. Diarrhea, vomiting, cramps ... any mage attempting to force magic under such conditions risks instant collapse. More often, they simply cannot mobilize the chaos magic scattered through the world.

Spellcasting demands undivided concentration. If a spell is not internalized as instinct, one lapse can twist the chaotic forces into forms too grotesque to describe. Powerful, well-prepared sorcerers invest in anti-toxin potions, anti-plague draughts, analgesic salves, magical amulets ... ordinary people cannot fathom the expense. But Margarita had nothing.