There have been rumours about strange occurences in the guest wing for a while now. He has always shrugged them off as old wives' tales. Nothing really bad has ever happened, no human casualties or damaged furniture or anything truly remarkable or scary. Just little things. Curtains billowing despite the windows being closed and there was no way they should move, or items inexplicably disappearing and appearing in a different and very strange spot, like the underwear of a guest hanging from the chandelier or an expensive pendant in the empty bathtub. Or things falling onto the floor, apparently of their own volition. He would still not give a damn if the rumours about the haunted guest wing of the Cintrean castle had not spread so far and wide by now that several guests of state have had the audacity - and idiocy - to refuse to be lodged there. With the gossip about the ghost growing out of hand, he has finally decided to take drastic measures. After thorough investigation and several interrogations conducted by the head of the Cintrean branch of his secret service, they were able to narrow the alleged supernatural phenomena down to one specific room in said guest wing. And he, Emhyr var Emreis, the Imperator of Nilfgaard and current ruler of Cintra, is determined to find out about its secret personally and tonight to finally put an end to this nonsense. He cannot have the northern kings make fun of the Greatest Emperor of the largest Imperium on the continent because he is not even able to keep his favourite residence outside of Nilfgaard proper ghost-free. If he believed in the rubbish, he might consider hiring a mage or a witcher, but being very much opposed to either profession as well as to believing in ghosts in general, no less in his castle, he has decided to spend a night in the allegedly haunted room himself. He will discover what is behind the stories, and it is certainly not a ghost!
The room is nice enough for a single guest of not too high a standing, like lower nobility. When he opens the heavy wooden door, Emhyr's gaze lights immediately on the big bathtub made of dark metal that is placed opposite the door. The servants who have readied the chamber for him, have filled it to the brim with steamy hot water and lit the candles in the candle holders on the wall above it. In a niche to the left there is a settle made of dark wood for the guest's spare clothes or extra blankets. A pile of fresh towels and a bathrobe have been set out on it for him to dry and dress himself after the bath. A rug in similar colours as the light sandstone walls covers part of the floor. A few steps lead down to the part of the room with the bed. It is pitifully narrow in comparison to his own bed and does not have a canopy, but it will suffice for this one night. A high-backed chair stands in the corner at the lower end of the bed whereon is draped his favourite nightgown. The requested book on war strategy is waiting for him on the smallish nightstand at the head of the bed. A slim standing mirror opposite the bed, a table with spiral legs in front of the wall between the chair and the mirror, a wrought-iron chandelier and a richly decorated wall hanging complete the room's rather basic interior design - basic when measured against his usual standards. On the table there is a pot of ink, parchment and quills, and, far more importantly, a plate of assorted fresh fruit, including his favourite kind of almost black grapes, and a carafe of dastardly expensive red wine - much better wine than his guests would be served here, but if he takes this stupid task onto himself, the least thing he can expect is some luxury for his pains. Now, where is that stupid ghost?
Emhyr grasps the plate with the fruit, sits down on the bed for a moment and observes the curtains while plopping one grape after the other into his mouth, eating them with a relish. Perfectly ripe and sweet, exactly like he wants them.
When nothing happens, nothing at all, he stands up again and starts to undress, gazing at himself in the mirror. To spot it if a ghost should appear behind him, of course. Also, he must admit, he likes what he sees. Undoubtedly, he is a man in his best years, well muscled and proportioned with only a very slight, almost invisible indication of a pouch, the grizzle in his hair and beard giving him an air of wisdom and seniority, exactly what an imperator ought to look like. Tomorrow, he decides, when he has successfully dispelled all the talk about this preposterous ghost, he will order an artist to paint another portrait of the majestic ruler of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Which pose should he choose for it, hmm? Difficult to decide. Not the usual one sitting on his throne or horse clad all in black and gold yet again, he has more than enough of those paintings. How unfortunate that, as the imperator, he cannot pose like here in front of the mirror, naked as mother nature made him. It would cause quite a scandal if he did. Although, his well-defined body ought to be delivered to posterity. He usually does not give a rats arse about etiquette but, well, a nude portrait is probably a red line even he cannot cross. What a pity.
After the Emperor of Nilfgaard has finished admiring himself in the mirror, he first climbs up the stairs and then into the big bathtub. Now it has the perfect temperature. The oils and scents the servants have added to the water are perfectly balanced, spicy, sweet, exotic, flowery, all of it at the same time, and still and very importantly, unobtrusive. There is hardly anything he hates more than people who wear too poignant a perfume. With a deep sigh, Emhyr closes his eyes and leans back in the tub, providing the ghost with the perfect opportunity to cause some of his possessions to vanish. He has safely committed every detail about the whereabouts of all his belongings to his extraordinarily precise memory, of course, and is completely confident that he would notice it at once if something has been moved.
When quite some time has passed that ought to have sufficed for the ghost to do his mischief - or is it her mischief? - Emhyr blinks his eyes open. Naturally, there is nothing to be seen. Everything is still in place, like expected, only the mirror is slightly steamed over. Which was also to be expected.
Should he get out now and ready for bed? It is too early yet to sleep, but the water is cooling down and there is the book and his wine. Ah yes, a nice cup of Est-Est and a few grand inspirations on how to finally manage to conquer the continent, he so deserves this. Licking his lips in anticipation, Emhyr climbs out of the tub, dries himself off, drapes the bathrobe over his shoulders and, with purposeful strides, takes the steps downstairs and walks toward the table.
Abruptly he comes to a halt. Has he just, in the corner of his eye, caught a slight movement of the long, dark curtain next to the mirror? Well, either he is seeing things, or it must have been caused by his own, swift downward movement, there is no other explanation. Not letting the curtain out of his sight, he walks up to the table and reaches for the carafe with wine. He pours himself a generously filled cup of it. Still gazing at the curtain, Emhyr lifts the cup first to his nose to smell the enticing aroma, then he holds it to his lips. However, before he can take the first sip, there is the sudden sound of cracking, shattering glass. In front of his very eye, the misted over surface of the mirror breaks into a thousand shimmering fragments. Taken utterly by surprise, the cup of wine slips Emhyr's fingers and falls to the floor with a metallic clatter. A big pool of red collects on the beautiful mosaic. It looks ominously like blood.
Damn, what the hell is going on here? That was his favourite vintage! And it has become so hard to come by after his cousin Annarietta, Duchess of Toussaint, has stopped her annual deliveries demanding of him to first promise to her never ever to start a war again. A promise which, of course, would be utter stupidity to make. Sooner or later she will forget about it, but until then every drop of Toussaintois wine spilled is a true tragedy. Well, what is done cannot be undone. Fortunately, there is plenty of wine left in the carafe. He does not even need to bend down to pick up his cup. A second one stands ready on the table. The servants can clean up the mess in the morning. If he summons them now, they will only spread more inane rumours. A broken mirror must surely be the harbinger of imminent doom. And if not that at least he will be cursed to seven years of bad luck, is that not what the ridiculously superstitious say? Emhyr scoffs at the ludicrous thought. Then he raises the carafe to fill his cup. And freezes in mid-movement. Has he just seen a face reflected on the surface of the spilled wine? A face that was not his own? No, it is not possible. Still, he could swear there was something. He takes a step closer to inspect the puddle. Presumably it was just a trick of the flickering candle light reflecting on the liquid in combination with the pattern of the underlying mosaic. He stares at the scarlet pool of wine for a moment. There is nothing. Of course, there is nothing.
With a shrug, Emhyr fills his cup of wine and takes a sip. Ah, how gorgeously delectable! The complex, delicate combination of just the right amount of fruitiness, rich floral aromas and silky tannins. A hint of nutmeg and oakwood, too. A symphony of tastes befitting an Emperor. Only he should have ordered his servants to bring his favourite goblet. Drinking from this rather common cup slightly diminishes the experience. He takes another sip. No, this cup will not do at all. He turns around to walk to the door and alert the guard standing in front of it to his dire cup situation. But damn, there was something in the mirror, was there not? He swivels around. And gasps. A face is staring at him from the splintered glass. A male face that looks somewhat familiar. A chill runs down Emhyrs spine. This cannot be normal, nor a trick of the light. But there has to be a sensible explanation. Ghosts do not exist! Perhaps a mage has tampered with the mirror? Enchanted mirrors are a thing, are they not? It is possible and far more likely than the existence of a supernatural being. But why would a mage enchant this rather ordinary mirror? And why on the continent is he seeing this - elf? An elf with black, spiky hair and a scar running from his right temple to the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, the faint memory of a private audience springs to Emhyr's mind. Damn, is that not the elven warrior that told him about Francesca searching for Ciri instead of waging war on the north? The elf who came to Cintra with Cahir? Emhyr's eyes grow wide as realisation hits and his breath catches. Is this the room where—
The tinkling sound of glass raining onto the floor interrupts his unsettling train of thoughts. The scary face is gone, dissolved into a thousand glittery fragments scattered about the tiles. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. It was probably just his imagination after all. Or has somebody tampered with his drink? A pinch of a strong hallucinogenic substance mixed into the wine perhaps? He will confront his security officer about it come morning. Have they not had the wine tasted properly by one of the prisoners before bringing it to his room? Heads will roll if this incident is due to negligence!
As a precaution, Emhyr puts the cup of wine back on the table with a deep sigh. No more wine for him tonight, no. It is regrettable but he needs to have his wits about him. Looks like it is reading instead of drinking time. And there are some grapes left, too. He turns toward the bed.
All of a sudden, Emhyr feels an icy breath in the back of his neck. Is one of the high windows defective and has opened by itself? He turns around yet again to check. And freezes to the spot. No, this is not possible. Is he losing his mind? Or is this a dream, a very bad one to boot? He pinches himself, however, it is there still. A big and very pointy glass shard is hovering in the air directly in front of his face. Fuck.
Then a shape slowly materialises out of nowhere. The shape of a person holding the shard in their hand. The elf with the face scar. Emhyr's heart misses a beat as he stands paralysed, rooted to the spot. Breathing is almost impossible, his throat feels constricted and he is not able to cry out for help. Which he would very much like to do at the moment. Like the rabbit facing the deadly predator, he stares at the apparition. The image is flickering in and out and mostly translucent so he can easily see through it. Which is extremely disturbing. What is even more disturbing, though, is the thick stream of blood gushing from the elf's neck and onto the floor, mixing with the spilled wine. He must have died here on these bloody tiles, stabbed in the neck with a dagger. And now the elf's ghost is out for revenge.
"I - I am truly sorry for what happened to you," Emhyr finally whispers shakily, finding his voice again. If he cried out loud for help, the ghost would, no doubt, end him immediately, but perhaps it is possible to negotiate with it? He is a master at negotiations, at manipulating people. Maybe he can manipulate a ghost, too? What was the elf's name again? It always makes a good impression to address people personally by their given names. Gelatine? No, but something similar. Gallatin, yes, that was it, that is the dead elf's name. Dead on his orders, but the ghost has no way of knowing this, has it?
"You surely are aware that it was not I who killed you, Gallatin. It was Cahir, the bloody traitor," Emhyr continues, trying to suppress the shaking in his voice and to sound as convincing and self-assured as possible. It does not work quite as well as he would have wished but he is getting better at it. He is doing a petty good job considering he is talking to a ghost that wants to kill him.
"Cahir, he betrayed us both, first you, Gallatin, and then me, his emperor and saviour. On Thanedd. You and I, we should take revenge on him together," Emhyr goes on, feeling ever more confident, his words flowing smoothly now. His arguments are sound, and how could anybody withstand his superior rhetoric? "My men are searching the continent for him as we speak. If you let me go, I promise I will bring the backstabbing turncoat here to you so that you can finish him off and find your peace." That is why ghosts exist, is it not? Unfinished business. As soon as Cahir has died a most gruesome death at the hand of the elf he murdered, the haunting will stop and he will be able to use the guest wing again. All will be well. As it should be.
Suddenly, the hand holding the glass shard moves away from Emhyr's neck. Thanks to the Golden Sun - or rather to his golden tongue - it worked! Emhyr breaks into a self-satisfied smile.
However, the smile freezes in place only seconds later. To Emhyr's horror, the ghost does not drop the shard but places it on his naked chest, the tip of the glass pressed so hard against his skin that it draws blood.
"No! It's Cahir you want, not me!" he exclaims. "I'm innocent! Get away from me! I, the Emperor of Nilfgaard, command you, get away!"
Yet, the ghost does not seem to be impressed, on the contrary. The elf's free left hand shoots forward and, with an icy grip, clasps Emhyr's throat, restricting the airflow to his lungs, choking him, effectively keeping him from uttering another word - and from screaming. With his right, he pushes the glass shard deep into the Emperor's flesh, opening his chest. To Emhyr's utter horror, the ghost then reaches into the cavity, grips his heart with his icy hands and pulls it out of his body with a menacing grin.
"Look," the ghost of Gallatin hisses.
His is heart is not red but as black as pitch. It is the last thing Emhyr sees in this world before his eyes break and he sinks to the floor, dead. As the black heart freezes and then evaporates in the hands of the slowly dematerialising ghost, Emhyr's corps shrivels up and crumbles into dust that mixes with the blood and wine on the tiles.
It is all that will be left to posterity of Emhyr var Emreis, the great Emperor of Nilfgaard.