Vickard, the self-proclaimed savior, the man who believes he holds the world’s fate in his hands—how quaint. I have little patience for men who believe themselves to be chosen by destiny, as though the universe bows to their will. He is a king, yes, but a king shackled by his own delusions. He spends his days surrounded by his visions of the future, the false belief that his actions are guided by some greater, unseen hand. He may call it prophecy; I call it the raving of a man too afraid to accept that everything he’s doing is little more than a futile dance in the dark. His need to control, to preserve, to unite—it’s all a farce. Power is not for preserving the world; power is for bending it to your will. That’s the difference between us, and he will never understand it.
Ah, but his loyalty to his wife, Siglind—what a twisted mockery that is. He may claim to love her, and perhaps he does, in his own, pathetic way. But what he truly loves is her utility. She is a piece on his grand chessboard, a weapon to wield in his quest for power. Love? It’s a tool, nothing more. I’m sure she’s a formidable woman, capable in battle, but let’s not pretend that Vickard doesn’t see her as a stepping stone to his vision of the world. To him, she is the key to his reign—a queen who can stand beside him, fight beside him, yet always remain at his side because he lets her. This is where I find him weak: he cannot see that the more he tries to control, the more he traps himself. Love, loyalty, friendship—they’re all just strings in a web he’s too blind to see he’s caught in. A puppet, trying to pull the strings, but only fooling himself.
I do not care for loyalty in the same way. I make loyalty. I shape it, twist it to my will. To manipulate, to turn men and women into tools—that is the true art. The weak mistake loyalty for affection; I know better. People are nothing more than resources to be used, discarded when they’ve outlived their usefulness. Vickard’s flaw is that he thinks his alliances, his “friendships,” are founded on something more. His bond with Lady Carmilla is a prime example. He believes she’s his ally because she shares his vision of the future. But the truth is, she is simply playing a game of her own, one far more dangerous than Vickard can comprehend. He trusts her. He relies on her. That is a fatal weakness. In the game of power, reliance on anyone—especially someone with such long-term motives as Carmilla—is the greatest folly.
And the stories of his "wild sight," these prophetic dreams of his... how delightful. It amuses me that he sees these visions as a gift, as though the gods are whispering in his ear, guiding him on the right path. I know better. His visions are nothing but an elaborate excuse for his actions, a justification for the violence and chaos he sows. He believes they make him special, a man of destiny—but in reality, they are just another crutch. It’s easier to believe in fate than to admit that you’re simply manipulating the world for your own ends. But Vickard will never see that. He’s too busy trying to convince himself that he’s a hero in this grand narrative, when in truth, he’s nothing but a pawn in his own mind.
He wants to unite the realm? A noble goal, one would think. But let’s be honest here—unity is nothing but a weapon to control. He talks of saving the world, but what he means is he wants to be the one to decide its future. He’s willing to break alliances, kill kin, and betray anyone who stands in his way—all in the name of a dream that only exists in his head. He calls it survival, but I see it for what it truly is: the obsessive drive of a man who cannot fathom life without the illusion of control. He would burn the world to the ground just to ensure he sits atop the ashes, his hands wrapped tightly around the reins of power.
And here’s the part I truly admire: his manipulative nature, his ability to inspire loyalty in his soldiers, his ability to keep them under his thumb. It’s a trick I know all too well. A man with a cause, a dream, and a solid grip on the levers of power can make his followers do anything. I have done it myself—turned the weakest of men into ferocious beasts, loyal to the bone, because I know how to speak to their fears, to their desires. But Vickard’s control is limited. He doesn’t see the cracks in the foundation he’s built. He trusts too easily, relies too heavily on the illusion of loyalty. I, on the other hand, am ever watchful, ever calculating. People are not to be trusted—they are to be manipulated until they can no longer tell which strings they’re being pulled by.
In the end, Vickard will learn what all men like him eventually learn: that power is not in the holding, but in the taking. The world does not care for saviors, and fate is not kind to those who seek to control it. His grand vision will crumble, just as all delusions do, and when it does, I’ll be there to watch him fall. For while he fights to unite the realm, I will be the one who watches it burn. And when it’s all reduced to ash, I’ll pick through the ruins, as I always do, looking for the next piece of the puzzle to manipulate. A true king—no, a true master—knows the game is never about saving the world, but about reshaping it in one’s own image.
Vickard is a king, yes. But I am a god in the making. And the world will bow before me when it finally breaks.
- Herr Nikola Hadares
