"What chance combination of shadow and sound and his own thoughts had created it?"

―Patricia Highsmith

*tw for child abuse

Hadrian allowed himself a half-second to panic. It was all he could spare. He breathed hard through his teeth, shoulders heaving when he leaned against the wall. The hunter was dead, then. Alekhine was dead. Where did that leave—no. If his mother was dead, Hadrian would feel it.

The pain would have been staggering, he would have felt it through the lines of magic no matter where he was.

Lin had been covered in blood, all Hadrian could tell was Lara, Denise, Valerie. Valerie was most recent, the red still clinging to Lin's hair and skin. He hadn't known Valerie very well, but he remembered her dark hair and loose grip on magic. It had been too long to tell if his mother's blood was among them. He listened desperately for Honora, finding nothing.

His mother was alive. The hunter was dead. Until he had evidence to the contrary, that was the end of the matter. He still had his orders. The mission still stood.

He rocked his head against the wall, flexing his jaw. The near-silent footsteps of another hunter—Pierce—forced him to pull upright. The stolen book felt like a lead weight, held tight to his torso by his binder and belt.

Hadrian cleared his throat and folded his arms across his stomach, walking slowly towards Pierce. The older hunter looked him up and down, concern radiating from him. Hadrian didn't even have to catch eyes with the man to know what he was thinking.

"Are you alright? I know Lin can be a little intense, but she really can't help it. She's been through a lot." Pierce paused, crouching to meet Hadrian's eyes. His voice seemed steady, but Hadrian's practiced ear caught on an uncertain tremor. "She means well."

"I know. Thank you, anyway." Hadrian twitched his lips upwards, giving Pierce a look-over. He wasn't actually that old, perhaps in his mid-thirties. But that meant nothing, his chiseled features skewed Hadrian's estimation towards younger, and the sigils edged older. He didn't smell like blood. "She seems nice, actually."

Pierce gave a little puff of laughter, bafflement shining. "That's a first."

Hadrian rocked back on his heels, trying to hide the pride blooming in his chest. Pierce was snared already, probably before they even spoke. "Why?"

"Well, Lin's an unpleasant sort on the best of days. Worse every day since Alekhine," Pierce said. "She'd sell her own mother for a laugh."

That seemed uncalled for. Hadrian needed to weigh his options quickly, especially if there was as much a divide between the hunters as he suspected.

"What did happen with Alekhine? I thought hunters were immortal," Hadrian said. He folded his hands behind his back and widened his eyes for good measure. "Like Lord Greymark."

Pierce sighed, looked down the hall both ways. Then he settled down in a patient tone. The man had practice speaking to young children, then. "It's... complicated. You need to kill a hunter for him to die. And hunters are damned hard to kill, only Lin would have been able to do it."

Hadrian latched onto the information. "And Lord Greymark?"

"Careful, lad. Wrong person hears you say that and it's blasphemy."

Pierce's accent had changed, grown thicker as he spoke to Hadrian. He was letting his guard down. Hadrian ducked his head at the soft rebuke, doing his best to imitate the accent—far north-east isles? "Was just curious."

"No. He ain't immortal. A hunter could kill him, if they really wanted to. It's all in the sigils," Pierce rolled up his sleeve and showed off the silver lines, "but it's got to be violent. It's got to break bones and cut flesh, that's the way of hunters. Poison won't work, not drowning, or fire, or magic. That's the stuff of witches."

Hadrian blinked. He literally got more out of a single conversation with Pierce than five years undercover in his father's palace.

Perhaps a position in the Manor would be more beneficial than he'd ever dreamed.

Hadrian rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded. "Oh. I'm—I'm only asking because," he trailed off.

"You want to be a hunter," Pierce finished for him, a smile parting his scruffy beard. "I know, it's why I told you."

Hadrian flashed a bland smile, not quite sure what emotion to convey. "Yeah."

The hunter's attention snapped up, eyes flashing down the hall. "Greymark wants you."

All Hadrian's muscles tensed. The magic that flowed constantly around him slowed, getting ready for an attack. It spiraled down his fingers, begging for a command. Begging to be brought to violence.

He wiped his palms against his pants. "Why?"

Pierce cocked his head. "Feels like your dad's looking for you."

A plan solidified in Hadrian's mind. One of several possibilities he'd already laid out in his mind. It was also the most painful, but it would get the job done.

He followed Pierce down the halls, weaving effortlessly behind him but hanging back enough to make the hunter slow his pace. It was a delicate, nonverbal lie.

Pierce glanced over his shoulder every few turns, his worried gaze focusing on Hadrian like a mother hen. Hadrian had to brush off the magic every time he did. It wanted to protect its witch from the sigils.

Hadrian thumbed a sliver of obsidian in his pocket, the texture of it reassuring and muffling the magic the more he focused on it. There were more stones hidden across his body, either doused in alcohol and shoved under his skin or sewn carefully into the seams of his clothes. They were too small to grant him any larger protection, though.

They hid his nature from the hunters, and it was enough.

The large hall bustled with hunters when they finally reached it, many of them lingering in packs while others trailed alone. Hadrian could smell blood on all of them.

Francis, Katie, Nayeli, Ames, were splattered across a dozen tattooed men. Magic curled around each of the hunters, a powerless threat. He'd known those women, those witches. They'd known his mother and respected her like the leader she was—is. That was an entire coven gone.

He swallowed and tried to ignore it, even as wisps of witches he'd never met assaulted his nose and ears.

They laughed and talked, oblivious to Hadrian wandering among them.

Pierce carved a quick path. Hunters stepped out of his way without looking, their sigils reacting to each other in a strange performance. Hadrian eyed the exposed skin many of the hunters sported, filing away every detail.

They finally reached the doors that led to Greymark's office, just alongside his place of worship. Hadrian gave a small glance to the carved doors representing the devastation of earth. He licked his lips and let his eyes trail upwards.

Sanded off.

The carving's sky was sanded blank. It would be unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know the story.

Because the witches used to be something called angels. Divine. Powerful. And then they fell from the traitor skies.

Hadrian slid his attention off it and towards Pierce, not hesitating for a moment. He lengthened his strides. Greymark and Wilson were there, standing off to the side with Greymark halfway out the hidden entrance.

"There he is," Greymark said, his eyes holding Hadrian for a split second. "See, not dead yet."

Magic felt strange in Greymark's presence. It was like Hadrian stood at the edge of a precipice, all the power flowing down the hole. And the edges were crumbling inwards. He did not fall. He didn't want to know what would happen if he fell.

Wilson nodded and sighed, a strangely human gesture for once. Then he pushed off the shelf he was leaning on and strode towards Hadrian, snapping his fingers in his son's face.

"Come along, then."

Hadrian flashed Pierce a glance, too quickly for anything to be read, and stepped after Wilson. Pierce's eyes bored into the back of Hadrian's skull as Wilson led him down out of Greymark's office.

A contingent of Wilson's guards snapped to attention as their King approached, peeling off the walls to flank them.

Hadrian braced himself as they left the main hall, vanishing from the sight of any hunters. Wilson continued on, turning sharply to climb a set of winding stairs. Hadrian's tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips. Now or never.

He folded his arms over his chest, carefully dislodging the book he'd wedged against his chest. He held it there, between his forearms and stomach, gauging his father's motions.

Wilson flicked his fingers at the guards, allowing them to linger back as he led Hadrian up the stairs.

They reached the third floor. Wilson opened a door and stepped aside, eyes boring into the top of Hadrian's head. Hadrian willed himself to placidity. 

"Well?"

"The huntress isn't going to tell Mara anything." He knew that much at least. It was obvious that Lin had no reverence for anyone, least of all a King. 

Wilson grasped his son by the shoulder, his hand nearly crushing the bones there. "How sure are you?"

Hadrian gritted his teeth, digging his nails into his palms to ground himself against the sudden onslaught of magic that rose to defend him. Not now, not now. I'll be fine. "Very. Lin hates Mara."

"And Janus? Why would she value Janus' opinion, of all people?"

"She doesn't," Hadrian breathed. The weight of Wilson's thumb on his collarbone made his lungs struggle to move. "She's just—being difficult."

"And you? Are you being difficult?"

Hadrian shook his head, tears springing in his eyes when Wilson suddenly let go. He pulled in a breath, trying to not to overtly gasp. He kept his head down, arms tight across his chest.

Suddenly, Wilson grabbed his arm and shoved. Not hard, but with their size difference he didn't need much. Hadrian crashed into the wall with a choked gasp, his arms flailing and ribs screaming.

The book dropped out of his sweater.

"Damn it. What have I told you about stealing?" Wilson's tone spiked hard, snatching the book from the ground and grabbing Hadrian's throat.

The pressure on his windpipe wasn't enough to crush it, but Hadrian choked and pawed at Wilson's arm anyway. He didn't have to fake the tears that sprung up.

"I'm—sorry," he wheezed.

Wilson considered the book, The Setting Sun, and shoved it in his pocket. He wasn't that angry. Hadrian knew his father's various levels, and this was fairly low. He needed more.

So Hadrian closed his eyes and lashed out. Gently, his grip still firm on magic, it was barely a slap in the end. But it was enough.

Hadrian's face exploded in pain at his father's retaliation, nose burning and swelling and his mouth full of his own blood.

He dropped to the ground, dazed.

He barely noticed his father leaving without him, the guards skirting his body like they'd seen it a thousand times before. Which most of them had.

Hadrian lifted his hand to his lip, patting the split there. It wasn't bleeding much. His nose was, but it wasn't broken. At worst he'd have a black eye. Magic beckoned to heal him, soft feathery touches trying to ease the ache that bloomed all over his body and head.

He dug his hand into his pocket and nearly cut himself on the obsidian. No, as firmly as he could. I need the blood.

He was a witch. Everything in his blood and body told him he was. But he had to pretend. He had to be vulnerable and human and quiet.

For Lara, Denise, Valerie, Francis, Katie, Nayeli, Ames.

For Mother. And Alekhine, he supposed.

He had fallen for a reason. If that reason was to suffer, then so be it.

--

"Aqua regia" (; from Latin, lit. "regal water" or "king's water")

Aqua regia  is a very strong acid. It is made by mixing one part concentrated nitric acid and three parts concentrated hydrochloric acid. The acid was named by alchemists because it can dissolve the noble metals gold and platinum.