On the Matter of Witz: The Wyvern Behind the Ravenglass Throne
An Inquiry into the Influence, Origins, and Disputed Legacy of the So-Called King-Whisperer.
By Scholar-Magus Elwen Thorne, Archivist of the Second Rank, Sothalon Imperial College, Year 931
It is perhaps the greatest testament to the enigma of Witz that in this, the 931st year of the Unified Empire, no scholar—not even among the cloistered savants of Reichsherz nor the dream-minds of Sothalon—can definitively answer one simple question: Who is Witz?
He has not been seen in nearly a century. Not publicly. Not in court. Not in sky. Some claim he has died, others that he simply moved on. But as with all things Witz, absence only sharpens the mystery. For many, he remains a puzzle, a presence, and—perhaps—a problem.
The earliest credible reference to Witz appears in the Book of Empire, that foundational record of the Ostehild dynasty and its divine sanction. He is named—casually, without elaboration—among the signatories of the Accord of Fire and Sky during the founding of the Empire. No age is given. No lineage. Simply: Witz, Winged Witness.
This is not the mark of a newcomer.
References to a speaking wyvern—a “black-eyed shadow of wise temper”—appear as far back as the First Kingdom Era. In the Diaries of Queen Imeryn, he is noted as advising her father, then herself, and later, her grandson. The tone shifts. Sometimes grateful. Sometimes wary. Always respectful.
This same Witz (for there is no mention of another bearing the name) appears again and again—never at the centre, always adjacent. A counsel. A confidant. A whisper.
And so the title bestowed upon him by popular history: The King-Whisperer.
The standard narrative, taught still in the provincial temples and lesser schools, casts Witz as a benevolent observer, perhaps gifted with foresight, perhaps merely long-lived and wise. He offered advice to the Ostehilds in moments of peril—urging restraint when blades were drawn, boldness when the court wavered, and mercy when cruelty tempted emperors.
But this is not the only interpretation.
Some claim Witz is no guide but a glamour-caster, manipulating perception, weaving enchantments subtle enough to pass for diplomacy. These claim he used puppet rulers to enact his own designs—an immortal, unaging architect of empire hiding behind a rotating cast of human masks.
It is known that wyverns possess psychic faculties. That Witz’s presence has preceded pivotal shifts in court power cannot be denied. He is mentioned in the margins of royal assassinations, civil truces, the appointment of three High Priestesses, and the unification of Molotok under imperial treaty.
Coincidence? Perhaps. But for one who seems always present when power moves, the idea of his non-interference strains credulity.
It is here that the line between rumour and revision becomes difficult to tread.
Witz’s name appears in the burned records of the Guardian Schism, preserved only through copies made by exiled Keepers. He is listed not as an outsider but as one of the Seven Observers, a title otherwise unrecorded, but consistent with Guardian terminology.
Was Witz a Guardian? Is he still?
His affinity with Ravenglass is unquestioned. Witnesses in the time of Kathryn Ostehild described him as “humming with resonance” when near the black crystal, able to still its glow or stir it to brilliance with but a thought. This is not merely affinity. It is mastery.
And yet, Guardians fell. Witz remained.
Did he abandon them? Did he survive their fall because he orchestrated it? Or did he, as some less conspiratorially minded scholars suggest, simply outlive them all?
How long do wyverns live?
This is not an idle question. Most wild wyverns do not survive past two centuries, though those bonded to Ravenglass seem to endure far longer. Yet even then, the known limit is four—five centuries at most. If Witz walked the court in the time of the First Kingdom, and again during the reformation of the Guardian sects, then he is no less than a thousand years old.
No known wyvern has achieved this.
Unless he is not a wyvern at all.
Some fringe theorists—typically the sort who claim the moon speaks—believe Witz to be a Ravenglass construct, a sentient artefact assuming wyvern form. Others suggest he is an avatar of the Shadow Realm, a psychic echo left to ensure a particular timeline unfolds.
I find such ideas fanciful. But I cannot wholly dismiss them.
Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that Witz is what he appears to be: a sapient wyvern with a gift for language, manipulation, and politics. Why, then, remain so long in the orbit of the throne? Why not rule openly? Or depart? Or die?
Some suggest his motive is stewardship—that he sees the Ostehild line as a necessary stabilising force in a world otherwise prone to collapse. Others argue he is enacting a long game, nudging events towards an unknown end that only he perceives. A few suggest he is bound by oath or artefact, unable to leave, unable to die, until some task is complete.
The truth is, we do not know.
And perhaps that is the point.
In this, the 931st year of empire, Witz has not been seen in court for nearly a century. Some say he departed into the mountains. Some say he sleeps beneath Reichsherz. A few believe he perished in the last Guardian cull, and that the Empire merely keeps his myth alive to mask a power vacuum.
But I believe he lives.
Because empires continue to shift—slowly, subtly, always just ahead of collapse. Because no power has yet grown so bloated that it has not found itself subtly corrected. Because the flame of Ravenglass still flickers in the archives, in the whispers of exiles, and in the dreams of those who remember him.
Who is Witz? A wyvern. A guide. A manipulator. A construct. A lie. A truth.
Perhaps all of these.
Or perhaps—just perhaps—he is still watching.
Filed for restricted review under Imperial Concordance 4.931.b.
For discussion under Temple and Collegium joint review only.
