Magister Verbi

Authenticity means accurately conveying the understanding gained from experience, without diminishing the original force of the event that generated it.

In the wilderness of the desert, where time forgets its measure, I walked with the burden of a sacred mission that I did not fully understand. Being only a scribe forgotten by time, bearer of an ancient and dangerous, but also mysterious art, I assumed the mission to translate people's dreams into symbols that change the fabric of reality itself. It was not a science learned from books, nor a worldly profession, but rather a Hereditas Arcanatransmitted by blood and revelation, a calling that made me see beyond the surface of things, to transform ephemeral thoughts into signs that take on a life of their own.

But one day, when the sun seemed to have remained suspended at the zenith of an uneasy silence, I felt a strange presence following my steps through the endless dunes. It was not the shadow of a wandering animal or the usual mirage of heat – it was something infinitely more dangerous and intelligent. It was a sorcerer of dark power, a Pyromanticus Infernalis, who had long sought the key to the lost formula of creation that few of the living knew anymore: the art of giving soul to words.

And this was found only in the Forbidden Oasis, the place where words give birth to worlds and desires take shape, just like flowers after the rain. Legend had it that only a true scribe of symbols could open the gate of this sanctuary, where reality becomes malleable like clay in the hands of the divine potter.

Are you able to identify a manifestation of duality, where any commitment contains within itself the potential to turn into a mere illusion?

The wizard, disguised as an honest merchant, approached me with the hissing charm of a waiting serpent. He was a man of medium height, with eyes like two dark gems and a voice like poisoned honey. He spoke to me so beautifully about meaning, about glory, about the immortality that can be printed in words that never die. "Come with me, scribe," he whispered with a conviction that seemed to soften even the sand around him, and I will show you the place where your art takes on dimensions you have never dreamed of. There, every syllable you write becomes a star, every metaphor is embodied in flowers and rivers."

I admit that for a moment I was tempted to follow him. How many scribes have not dreamed at least once, with a single burning thought, of a world in which their words were not just echoes in the emptiness of pages, but living forces capable of reshaping existence? Something in his gaze had awakened a deep unease in me – he was too charming and, at the same time, too eager to follow him. And a true seeker of wisdom does not come with empty promises, but with questions that open new paths of understanding. And so, although my heart was beating with the force of a fear I did not fully understand, I chose to follow him, but keeping my vigilance sharp as a dagger blade.

What revelation can you gain about what seems definitive, knowing that the power you have is stuck between real and illusion?

The wizard led me to a forgotten corner of the desert, where the dunes formed a natural amphitheater, and in its center opened what seemed to be just another expanse of sand, identical to thousands of others. But when he spoke the words "Sadhan Ichtos Portysus," in a language I did not recognize, the very air began to vibrate with an ancient energy. "Here is the Forbidden Oasis," he told me with the triumph of one who holds a priceless secret. It opens only to the voice of one who writes the truth of his heart. You are the only one who can activate the gate, scribe. Write this! Write and see how dreams come true!"

In that moment, I understood the entire trap with a clarity that froze my blood in my veins. I had to write, in his words, that ancestral formula, because only my writing had the power to open the sacred gates. And he did not seek to share the power of that place with me – he wanted to steal it, to pervert it for his own dark purposes. For the oasis was not a gift offered generously, but a weapon he wanted for himself, using me only as a temporary key to open the forbidden sanctuary. Yet I felt in my soul the warning of an ancestral wisdom: not all gifts are blessings, and not all sacred places are meant to be discovered by everyone.

Are you open to an art form that, instead of expressing, cancels – and through canceling, reveals?

Then I did something the sorcerer had not expected—I chose to write not the truth of my heart, but a lie so beautiful, so artistic, that it seemed truer than the truth itself. I wrote of an oasis that was at once garden and desert, paradise and its own hell, a place where desires are fulfilled through their own destruction. It was a sublime mendacium—a believable lie that contained more wisdom than many banal truths. Thus, my words began to shine on the sand like fiery hieroglyphics, and the reality around us began to contort, to fold upon the paradox I had birthed.

And suddenly, the oasis opened up indeed, but not as the sorcerer had dreamed. It was a revelation of pure contradiction, a place that existed and did not exist at the same time, that offered everything and nothing, answering all desires by canceling them. The sorcerer, caught in the labyrinth of his own expectations, remained stuck between reality and illusion, between what he dreamed of obtaining and what he had actually received. He gestured desperately, trying to command me to rewrite, to correct, to make the oasis "real," but the power had already been released and could no longer be controlled or directed. He did not realize that his powers had weakened, and mine had increased.

If you could convey the essence of your life through a single story, how would you do it, so that it reflects your clarity in the face of a reality that is shaped by illusion?

Exactly as it is written in 1001 Nights: "Despite their sorcerous power and their cursed science, sorcerers do not know how to think about the consequences of the most ordinary deeds and never think to defend themselves in time against the dangers that an ordinary man sees. Since, in their pride and confidence in themselves, they never call for help from the Lord of All Creatures, and their minds remain forever clouded by a smoke thicker than the smoke from their smokehouses, while their eyes are covered by a fairy tale, and they grope through the mists!"

Thus I managed to escape from great danger. Then, I left that cursed place with a heavy heart, but a clear conscience. I carried with me no material treasure, no magical object, no new power – only a story. But, as I moved away from the amphitheater where the wizard was still struggling in his own trap, I understood that, sometimes, a story is the only true treasure I can carry forward. For stories cannot be stolen, cannot be corrupted, and do not die with those who tell them – they live through those who receive them and understand them with an open soul.

Leadership is not based on rejecting a revelation that changes your perspective, but on finding authentic value in every moment that shapes you.

Magister Verbi teaches us that the true mastery of a scribe does not lie in using his gift to gain power over the world, but in keeping it pure and uncorrupted, even if this means refusing temptations that seem irresistible.

The Forbidden Oasis was not meant to be conquered by force or cunning, but to remain a mystery that reminds us that there are things to be respected in silence, not possessed in noise. And a true scribe finds fulfillment not in the power to create new worlds for his own glory, but in faithfully serving the world entrusted to him, preserving intact the purity of the sacred gift received from divine hands.