"The Hierophant suggests a need for rebellion and instigates change in the heart of the wanderer. Often, it shows in the deck for those who have lost control over their life and freedom, and indicates that now is the time to be fearless and seize control."

CHAPTER THREE

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THE HIEROPHANT

THE SOVETSKY MANOR was an obscure construction perched upon a steep hill, its narrow windows overlooking Kovak Lake akin to a grieving widow hunching over her husband's coffin. Candlelight wavered in the glass panels well into the night, and villagers from across the pond queried what spirits prowled in the somber foyers. Some said it to be the souls of those who had perished around the estate—phantasms of woeful intentions coming back to haunt the few staff members that still resided between the doomed walls. Others argued it to be the Lady of the Manor, with her sunken eyes and tainted being, poignant hum bewitching the minds of her servants and making them dance to their crypts.

It was a necropolis for everything illicit, a palace where sins rested on padded cushions and feasted upon sauntering souls. Over the years, the number of staff members diminished, until no more than a dozen souls inhabited the Manor. Some had been sent away; others had packed their bags in horror, not wanting to work under a woman that the Tsar had denounced.

Most of them had died.

Empty corridors screeched as rainfall thudded against the ajar windows, droplets plummeting on the cold tiles as the racket of heels clicking against the marble resounded through. Funeral gray seeped into the surroundings, the candles flickering from the breeze that howled with anguish, and curtains flapped around as the Head Maid made her way to the Solar.

As the Sovetsky family's living chamber, the Solar had once been a vast room furnished with imported textiles, squealing visitors, and an ever-present fragrance of rosemary. Now, opening the timber doors that isolated the area from the grand hallway, it was easy to discern that the scenery had had a drastic change. No longer was warmth ricocheting off of every surface, a gliding sentiment caressing the figure of anyone who lived in the private quarters. Instead, dusky curtains concealed the windows, except for the spacious balcony. Its doors hung wide, and in the covered opening stood the Lady of the Manor, her back turned to the Head Maid as she clutched the balustrade.

Lightning cascaded through the Solar, illuminating the melancholic portraits that had been covered with an ivory cloth, and the outline of the Count and Countess barely peeked from beneath. An empty canvas stood in the corner of the room, a paintbrush coated in carmine placed upon the round table next to it, and only a small patch in the corner had been touched by the color. Thunder followed shortly after, its vibration a cataract of terror as it hunted lightning, the one whom it would never catch.

"Countess, a carriage has pulled outside, and the coachman announced guests," began the Head Maid, her voice squeaky with age as she toyed with the hem of her uniform.

For a few moments, the Countess did not move, her dress fluttering as the rain poured around the covered balcony. Then, she turned her head; an indescribable expression etched in the furrow of her eyebrows.

"Prepare one of the private Cabinets and have the cook serve a tray of herbal tea," Irene murmured, noticing the astonishment on the maid's face.

She had not accepted visitors for years, and the bowl by her door for calls remained empty each month. Nobody wished to visit a Manor deemed to be plagued by ghosts of the past, not when the only residing noble was a pagan.

The maid stumbled with her words, "It is not Barron Malfoy, Countess. The coachman said—"

"I am well aware, Nadia," answered Sovetskaya, ushering one of the few servants she had kept to the door. "Do not fret over it; it is simply a matter of business amongst the merchants."

Nadia narrowed her aged eyes, and in every crinkle of her face, Irene could see a year she had spent serving for the Sovestaky family. After the witch's birth, when her mother had temporarily fallen sick, it had been Nadia that had cared and nursed her. Even after her parent's death, the maid had been the one to nurture Irene into a polite young woman, hiring the best governess and tutors to educate her on politics, literature, and arts.

When Sovetskaya had encouraged her to leave along with the rest of the staff, too frightened that her sorcery was darkly clinging to the servants and causing their deaths, Nadia had insisted on staying. Only eleven attendants had continued working at the Sovetsky Manor, their loyalty running too deep to abandon the struggling girl.

Now, Irene could only hope she would never stumble upon their corpses well into the night.

She knew that, in theory, it was not her that was causing their deaths. They were all natural occurrences, unfortunate accidents, yet her magic clung sweetly to the moribund, calling upon her like a demented whisper.

"Have the cook prepare some appetizers as well, I have been painting all morning, and I am quite famished," mused Irene, trying to push the maid out and avoid her questioning stare as she glanced at the empty canvas yet again.

Nadia allowed herself to be guided out, a soft sigh leaving her parted lips before nodding grimly, "I am pleased that you are exploring your hobbies again. It will do you good—a distraction is always welcome. And with everything happening down at the mine, it will get your mind off of it."

Irene forced a polite smile as she watched the maid walk away, her hoary hair pulled in a firm bun above the nape of her neck, her shoulders sagged by her age. The witch waited until Nadia's shadow could no longer be seen, then rushed back to the balcony, pushing the doors open and glancing down at the carriage again. She had been observing it from afar, her stomach churning with trepidation at what was yet to come, and the young woman knew that the conversation with the thieves would be doomed.

Part of her, the sane one, told her that there was still an opportunity to back out. She apprehended that Tom Riddle and his sort were charlatans, and that their word meant little. For all she knew, this could be nothing more than a plot to have her expose her treacherous plans to them, and then they would march to the Emperor, claiming to have information on an assassination attempt. They would be drenched in gold, pockets so full the carriage wheels would flatten underneath their weight, and Irene would be publicly executed.

But greed and vengeance were doppelgänger monstrosities, and they held hands as they dawdled around desperate souls, cooing words of enrapture. Irene's death was imminent, and she understood that if she did not act, the Emperor would find a way to get rid of her.

Trusting the thieves was a gamble, and she knew that shaking a dirty hand had multiple meanings, but they were also the only people gifted enough to pull off the swap and gain her entrance to the castle.

Below her balustrade, the carriage trudged through a muddied path, pulling outside the Main Entrance as instructed by the butler. From afar, the middle-aged man seemed to have a mask of weariness on his face, as if the unexpected arrival of guests had somehow managed to have him bewildered. With a swift motion, he opened the door, allowing for the visitors to step outside.

It was Aisha that got down first, promptly ignoring the butler's hand as her steely eyes settled on the Manor with disinterest. Her upper body was draped in a long, dusky tunic, with strings of gold sewn into the sleeves, circling the material in a wave-like motion. Her trousers, made from a softer material than anything the Mirzemlan market offered during the winter, were loose around her legs, but snug around her ankles. Aisha's weapon was nowhere in sight, although she had covered her Tasilan clothing with a stuffy fur coat that was fashionable for the harsh season, and that meant it could have easily been concealed.

An elegant raven swept down from the sky, settling down on her shoulder with a boisterous shriek, and the Force Wielder swatted at it restlessly, irritation tip-toeing across her lovely face.

The butler held the door again and out stepped Niklaus, his hair white as the snow that covered the imperial trees surrounding the Sovetsky Manor. Even from a distance, his eyes blazed like two iron rods—drab and scalding. They bore the impassivity of an educated man, and from his crafted moves to the fine press of his blouse, Irene almost did not recognize the Trickster disciple.

Her breath held as Tom Riddle stepped out at last, and the witch's stomach churned with the same sensation of peril that had doomed her judgment from the start. Fingers whitened around the cold metal of the balustrade, and her heart pounded with apprehension. Yet again, she could not shake off the nauseating feeling that wrecked her to her core, as if the boy was every human-known phobia morphed into a fiendish face.

She supposed Tom Riddle resembled, in some ways, the lesser beings of the Pagan Gods. The creatures of the night that lurked between the silvery cusps of shadows, claws digging in magnanimous souls and shredding them into ribbons of carmine. Malice was his own infused ichor, something that pulsed beyond perfect skin and fueled nightmarish intentions. Inky waves covered his forehead, and as the first flakes caught into his locks, Riddle glanced up at the sky as if to challenge whatever deity stood above.

Yet, his eyes found hers, and Irene felt her throat clench with an indescribable sensation.

It would have passed off as something comparable to desire, had she been foolish enough to take the elegance of his features and the twist of his lips to be sincere. Yet, in the fiery sensation that rested beneath her skin, it was another sort of burning that charred her resolve. Inexplicable hatred, an emotion of distrust that made her hands clench at his infuriating smirk, made Sovetskaya want to send the thieves back to their nest and find another way.

There was something unagreeable with the boy, and it certainly put Irene off. His arrogance was striking in the way he gazed up at her, as if she was not a Countess, but a senseless woman that desired things that had been meant for men. Tom knew that she needed him, and that made her weak. Irene hated that thought, and could not help but dislike him as well for making her feel so helpless.

Her thoughts smashed into fine dust as a caw resonated through the cleaning, pitched and shattering. The raven swooped in from the sky, landing right behind Irene and pushing into her room. There, amongst the covered portraits and drying paint, the bird shifted into a human form, one that carried a dashing smile.

"Good morning, Countess. What a splendid day for scheming, indeed!"

Chagrin coated Irene's cheeks, and her mouth hung open in disbelief as she processed the image of Theoden Nott standing in the midst of the Solar, expression teasing and challenging.

"You—" Irene spluttered, marching inside and shutting the doors before grabbing a towel from her canvas. She threw it at the boy, ignoring his wince at her strike, "You rotten little thing! How dare you simply waltz into my private quarters!"

Amongst the numerous whips of her towel, Nott twirled on his heels, ducking and covering his face, "Technically speaking, I flew in. I did not; what was it again? Ah! I did not waltz!"

His audacity only flamed Irene more, and she pushed tawny locks on her face, trying to cover reddening cheeks. Being alone with a boy in her private quarters was not something to be taken lightly, especially not when there was no chaperone present. It could tarnish her reputation further, and the last thing she needed was to be accused of adultery right before infiltrating the castle.

Her eyes fell on the roguish boy, who wore a lopsided grin on his face, and Sovetskaya felt the need to slap the audacity out of him. Theoden, the notorious shapeshifter, walked around with such ease in his steps that he still seemed to float like a raven. There was freedom etched into his nature, yet underneath the veil of carelessness, Irene could spot the hint of something darker.

"My apologies, Countess. I suppose they do not teach us the manners of the bourgeoisie in the sooty streets of Samaritta," he jested, referencing his country of birth with nonchalance.

Irene frowned, the earlier indignation slightly forgotten, "You are from Samaritta? I have a friend that comes from that country as well, though he prefers to think he was born from seafoam and night mist."

With a swift motion, Nott opened the door for her, gesturing gallantly for the witch to pass through. The coldness of the empty halls was akin to a blade against her skin, and her eyes searched the surroundings before stepping into the dim light of the candles. Irene twisted her head, and, to her surprise, saw that Theoden Nott had shifted back into his raven form, flying in and landing on her right shoulder. She found it ironic how he stood there, claws digging in her skin, ready to whisper demonic ideas in her ear.

Sovetskaya marched down the corridors, her shadow casting odd shapes on the tall walls, before stopping in front of one of the Cabinets. They were rooms reserved for entertaining guests, small studies filled with art, literature, and sometimes even a grand piano. The butler hurried down the arched hallway, stopping in front of the door and clearing his throat. He opened the door for Irene, then announced her promptly.

"Countess Sovetskaya, Head of the Sovetsky Territory."

The hinges grated as they swung to reveal the small chamber. The walls were adorned with a mixture of faded emerald and beige. Ancient portraits hung from hammered nails, some even depicting the last reigning magic bloodline. All over the room, the faces of the last Coven to rule Mirzemla watched with cautious eyes as the raven flew through the chamber, landing near Tom Riddle's impressive figure.

"Thank you, Adrian. That will be all," Irene waved off her butler, eyes scanning the thieves that stood around the room.

Aisha and Niklaus had settled on the small couch near the fireplace, teacups in their hands as they sipped gracefully on the herbal brew. Across from them, the only other chair in the room stood empty, for Tom Riddle had decided to stand upright by the window. His gaze took in the vast gardens of the Sovetsky Manor, not even bothering to bow to Irene's entrance.

With irritation dancing on her face, the witch took her seat, suddenly entirely aware of the sorcery pulsating through the room. She had never been surrounded by so many wizards at once, and it certainly felt overwhelming now, with Aisha's scalding eyes judging her every uncertain movement.

"Quite the Manor," the Force Wielder opened the discussion, a harsh bite to her words, "I suppose that is what commodity brings, is it not? Why try and take the Emperor yourself when you have such luxury surrounding you?"

"It is not as easy as you make it seem."

"Truly? Why do you not just slit his throat during one of your superficial balls?"

Irene scrunched her nose in exasperation, eyebrows setting in a frown, "I cannot get close enough to him during a party. He would never take the risk, and besides, the Emperor is guarded at all times. More importantly, say that I do assassinate him without first being in a position of power; it will only lead to anarchy."

For the first time since her entrance, Riddle shifted his feet, turning his head to glance at her. His white blouse was ruffled around the sleeves, and he had clasped his hands behind his back, making him seem authoritative.

"Is anarchy not what you desire?" he questioned, taking small steps towards her until he stood to her right. Riddle leaned in, his breath against her cheek as he spoke, "I thought your task was to kill the Emperor, not to take the crown as well. That is my reward."

Irene met his gaze with resolve, "I want his tyranny to end. He has starved the people; he has destroyed Mirzemla. Someone must fix what he ravaged."

"That was not what you told me in the forest," sneered Tom, and the greed in his eyes was nauseating. He did not want to share the throne, not with a woman that had the greater good on her mind. He moved away from Irene, circling her like a predator.

"How would you rule? You know nothing of our politics, nor do you have a plan."

"And I suppose you do, Countess?" He spat her title with acidity, making Irene tighten her grip around the teacup she had picked up.

"Perhaps, if you all stayed silent and allowed me to speak, you would be able to hear my plan," Sovetskaya's answer was just as scalding, her jaw tightening with vexation.

How was she supposed to work with such an ego-maniac? Tom Riddle was made from barbed wire and poison, his defense and a method of self-destruction. Though his beauty was indeed the hand of the Pagan Gods, Riddle's soul was dark and rotten. Irene saw it in his stare; the way death plagued his mind.

She was Death's finder, and her sorcery had led her to Tom Riddle. There was no doubt in her mind that he was cruel.

A few seconds of silence passed, and then the boy's expression shifted from malice to something that resembled wicked amusement, although it struck her more as patronizing. It was the look that a person of authority shot his disciple, something to remind them of their place.

"Go on, Countess. We are all here to listen to the noblewoman, are we not?" Riddle gave the raven a knowing glance, and Theoden shifted back into his human form, leaning against the couch with a curious glance.

Under four pairs of eyes, Irene suddenly wished that she had not come alone. She despised herself for not telling Abraxas of her plan, but she knew that the Elementalist would only scold her for being so rash in making decisions. Was she going insane? How had she come to think that dealing with Tom Riddle's crew of misfits was the safest option?

Still, they had come to hear her plan, and she was not one to back down. Irene set her teacup down, eyes skimming over the four sorcerers before her, then she took in a deep breath.

"In one week, the Regency will throw a party to celebrate Koliada. The December holiday means that spirits will be high, and so it is a perfect opportunity to strike. The prince will be preparing for his annual speech, which implies that he will come in much later than the rest of the court," explained Irene, her words fast as she tried to recall everything. "Abraxas Malfoy, my partner, will be in charge of delivering imported champaign to the ball. This allows the three of you to sneak in undetected with his carriages."

"What about me?" Questioned Aisha, noticing that she had been omitted from the plan.

"You will attend the ball as my lady-in-waiting," answered Irene, noticing the scoff that Aisha Kayani let out.

"Oh, will you have me braid your hair as well, Your Majesty?" Her sweet voice mocked Irene, so much so that Niklaus shot her a disapproving look.

"I believe it best," he spoke for the first time, a deep tune to his words, "that you join in and keep an eye on the Countess. For all we know, she could easily betray us to earn the favor of the Emperor. I am certain that he has a well enough reward for our heads."

"Ah, capturing the infamous thieves of the Main Boulevard. What most would do to prevent the Knights of Walpurgis from continuing their charade," sniggered Theoden, shooting Irene a ridiculous smile.

"Very well," muttered the witch, not caring to dismiss their concerns, "Have your sorceress babysit me, if you must. But that is not the point of your company. If I introduce you during the party, then once we move into the Palace, you will be treated as a noblewoman. This will allow you to gather information easily."

Something passed over Aisha's face, a spark that Irene could only describe as fear, although she doubted it was for the danger that the plan implied. The witch discerned there was something else bothering the foreign girl, even if she could not quite place it. Pressing her lips in a fine line, Aisha Kayani nodded, and the fright was suppressed.

"Once we are all inside, we will have different tasks. Riddle, you and your two lackeys will have to find the prince, then capture him. Your time will be tight, and there will be guards, but Niklaus can easily use his Chaos Sorcery to distract them. Then, Theoden will be able to shift and get inside his chambers without being spotted." Continued Irene, and with each word, she could tell they were starting to consider her carefully, "Meanwhile, Aisha and I will be distracting Thomas Lebedev's clique."

"Seems an unfair distribution of labor," commented Riddle, lifting a challenging eyebrow, "The three of us attempt to kidnap a royal; meanwhile, the two of you engage in party mingling."

Irene bit back a snort at his obliviousness, "Easy? Well, I suppose you have not met the Dolohov siblings and Anya Czermak. They are as demonic as the lesser Gods that plague the outskirts of Mirzemla."

Tom's eyes narrowed with something she could not decipher, "Humans are nothing like those demons. Our species is feeble, malleable—most can be ruled easily. But demons? They do not abide by our rules."

"Then I suppose the description fits the trio just as well," answered Irene, her wavy locks starting to fall in her face as she poured another round of tea in their cups. Then, she took out a vial of crushed hemlock, sizzling it in her own drink before bringing it to her lips.

She knew Tom had noticed the gesture, and if he were as intelligent as he thought himself to be, then the boy would figure out what she was doing. Irene supposed it was an unspoken threat on her side—something to show him that she was not as fragile as she appeared.

Her speculations on his powers made her mind whirl with ideas, and she knew that Riddle possessed some sorcery in his blood. It manifested in the way he walked, as if he was carrying an unseen weapon with him at all times, and nothing could harm him. There was such arrogance to his gait, along with an easiness in his gestures, that simply wrecked the witch.

What magic was he hiding?

"Are they dangerous, then?" Inquired Theoden, pushing himself from the edge of the couch and reaching for a scone from the tray.

"Vladimir Dolohov is an Oracle. His power has not yet matured, and he cannot control his visions, but should he see something about us, that itself would be dangerous. He is the only sorcerer allowed inside the Palace, except for his father, although he has retired from practice. Crown prince Thomas Lebedev keeps him close, but he has such a tight leash on the boy that Vladimir would never even think about betraying the Regency."

"What of his sister?" inquired Niklaus, running a hand through his white locks and pushing them back. He was a handsome man, with a tall frame that towered over his companions, and although he carried a Mirzemlan name, there was something else mixed in with his blood. His manners were different, and they belonged to the far East, although it was difficult to pinpoint a country. Perhaps, his parents had been of different ethnicities, and that had been how the boy had acquired his powers.

In other countries across the continent, magic could still be practiced openly, although there were measures that prevented the sorcerer population from overthrowing the common folk. Witchcraft bloomed in the souls of the worthy, whether it was a gift bestowed by the Pagan Gods, or an inherited trait from the direct descendants.

As most things in their world, magic could be passed down, yet only eight bloodlines remained directly related to the Pagan Gods. Sovetskaya was one of the most known, with its woeful tale and fading line, but there were others, such as the Malfoy family. Sometimes, Irene suspected that the Dolohov twins might have been direct descendants of the Goddess of Twilight, Twyla—the one who saw the ending of everything as the Sun saw the passing of a day. They read in the moon and stars, searching for answers in celestial bodies and stroking threads of dusk for a delicate melody. Such matters were kept private, though, as the Regency would never admit to weaponizing such a powerful bloodline against its own people.

Another way of acquiring magic was to have it gifted by the Pagan Gods. With a dying species, divinity often had to intervene and plant seeds of sorcery throughout the continent, allowing other families to wield such blessings. Irene supposed the thieves before her were the best example—magic that only went back a few generations, and had not been passed down directly from one of the original deities.

Then, there was the matter of Sporadic Sorcery. It was a malady, a mistake in the web of witchcraft that had covered the world. Cases were rare, and often they were strangely lethal, having the wielders perish at an early age. Sporadic Sorcery was uncontrollable; it was vicious and parasitic. From darkness festering inside human bodies in the form of suppressed sorcery, to the ability to use blood to cast curses and control the human body, such powers were considered unnatural.

"Ekaterina Dolohov?" Inquired Irene, her eyebrows furrowing. She dismissively waved her hand. "She has no powers."

Aisha shifted in her seat, long eyelashes moving as she tried to blink away the wilderness, "How is that possible? If her father and brother are both sorcerers, she should be one too."

"Their bloodline is different," explained Irene, eyes sliding to Tom. He was watching her with intensity in his eyes, as if he was trying to decipher something from her every movement. "The Dolohov twins are the possible descendants of Goddess Twyla, the original Oracle. She is the one who rarely gives her magic towards humans, and there are few families that can be blessed with it. The reason for it is quite simple—there cannot be multiple Oracles at the same time. It would simply destroy humanity. We would know all there is to know, and that includes how or when we would die. One can only assume the atrocities that people would start committing if they knew when they would perish."

Theoden scowled at her, dusting the scone crumbs off his face, "But we all die anyhow. Why would knowing when it happens change anything?"

Before Sovetskaya could answer, Tom cleared his throat, interrupting them. His eyes settled on her as he spoke, "Because the nature of mankind is for us to believe ourselves invincible until proven otherwise. When one knows their death is approaching, one can become rather...desperate to defy it."

There was a heaviness that settled in the room as if some unspoken words were hovering, waiting for Irene to grab them and arrange them in a cohesive thought. She saw Aisha visibly stiffen from the corner of her eye, and Niklaus gazed towards the fire with uncertainty. Riddle crossed his arms over his chest, rumpling the white blouse, and for a second, Irene thought he had always been meant to play the role of a charlatan prince.

Something regal clung to his stare, a tyrannical nature that made the witch's bones shudder and her chin rise automatically. With obsidian waves caressing his forehead and forget-me-not irises, he was a porcelain offering to the gods, a sanctified vessel. Yet, beyond the almost invisible cracks of a rough man, lolled something far wicked than Irene had ever seen.

"Anyhow," she broke their eye contact, unsettled, "Every bloodline of Twyla's can only have one active Oracle at a time. Usually, they only have one child, but when twins are born, they are meant to duel once they near the blooming age of their powers."

"Why not just kill one at birth, then?" Derided Aisha, twirling a strand of jet-black hair around her finger. Her hands were covered in beautiful jewelry, which Irene might have first believed to be stolen, yet it was traditional to Kayani's birth country. She suppressed a frown, wondering how a thief might have inherited such expensive accessories, for they were not something one simply stumbled upon in the market.

"Because they do not know which one is more powerful, Kayani. They raise them like slaughter pigs so that they might kill each other one day, and the reigning sibling would hold the power. Though, I suppose since the sister is powerless, the Dolohov family does not have to worry about such a thing," finished Tom, twisting on his feet and walking back towards the window, as if the discussion was well below him, and as such posed no interest. "And I could care less about such weak beings. We came here to be presented with a plan on how to take the crown. Whoever presents a threat shall be discarded."

Irene's eyes enlarged, and she settled down her cup, sitting upright. Her emerald dress clung to her figure and weighed her down. The Head Maid had attempted to conceal her boney body by ordering heavy layers of material, but it had proved to be more of a hassle than anyone would have expected. Sovetskaya always felt as if she could not move freely in her garments.

"We are not killing anyone," she stated, narrowing her eyes on Tom.

He shook his head, and a peal of bitter laughter sounded from his chest, dark and sardonic. "This is not a time for morals, Countess. If you wish to organize a coup, you will need to dirty those delicate hands of yours."

"I suppose that is why I have you here," continued Irene, unyielding. "To commit the dirtying act, as you have called it."

A whistle sounded through the salon, making the witch more aware of the discord that had created a ripple of tension. Her head snapped to Theoden, who had an amused smirk etched on his face as he leaned over to sip from his cup. It was a dainty thing in his large hands, and it almost looked comical as he scrunched his nose at the taste.

"My point stands," decreed Tom. "You will never achieve what you wish if you are unwilling to cover yourself in blood."

"Barbaric methods have never been my specialty," retorted Irene. "I suppose you shall do such things, while I handle the politics. That is why we are partnering, after all, is it not? Once we infiltrate the castle and capture the prince, we will need a place to keep him while—"

"Why not murder him?"

"In Mrithun's name! Will you stop with the murder suggestions?"

Riddle turned from his spot, looking at her over his shoulder with a sneer, "You would rather leave loose ends around? If he is alive, it is a threat to my reign."

"If he is dead, we lose our one source of information. I might be a noblewoman, but I have not been involved in many matters of the inner court. There will be questions on duties that belong to the heir, and Thomas Lebedev will be more than willing to answer with Aisha's talwar at his throat," argued the Countess, her hands gripping the material of her dress in frustration. "The prince is many things. A coward happens to be one of them."

Tom kept his disapproving stare, unmistakably believing that things could be handled by him alone. Yet, the mention of torture seemed to ease his discontent, and he eventually glanced towards Niklaus.

"Belov, would we be able to keep him in your store?"

Surprised at being addressed, Niklaus Belov seemed to jump, moving the couch a little to the left by accident. His tall frame was quite odd, with long legs almost reaching his chest as he sat in his place. Next to him, Aisha's average height had been diminished significantly.

"Borgin and Burkes has a cellar where we kept objects that are—" his grey eyes passed to Irene, as if pondering whether he could talk about his business in her presence. He cleared his throat, "Dark artifacts are kept downstairs, and I can move around certain things."

"Bring in some chains," quipped Theoden. "Surely, the prince will be more than pleased."

Tom nodded in agreement, and there seemed to be a newfound easiness on his face, as if he thought the plan could succeed.

"Very well," mused the leader, then glanced at Sovetskaya, "You and Kayani shall do your fair share of dancing and schmoozing, whereas we will take care of the capture."

With that, they all stood up, as if an implicit order had been passed around the room through a single side-swept glance. Tom grabbed his coat from the couch, and Niklaus rose to his feet, his tall frame even more remarkable in the light of the fireplace. They made to move towards the door, and Irene stood up agitated.

"But we have not discussed how you will capture the prince," she called, her movements frantic. "There are so many variables we need to take into consideration. I—"

Stopping in the door frame, Tom Riddle gave her a caustic smirk, "Leave the capture to me. My sorcery will make it fairly easy."

Flabbergasted, Irene stood in her spot, "I was not certain you could do magic."

"You do not know the least of what I can do, dear."

With that, he pushed open the door, his disciples tarrying behind like devoted soldiers. Their somber apparel caught the shadows of the Sovetsky Manor, and perhaps, for the first time, the whispers of the villagers were correct. There was indeed something terribly malicious promenading along the corridors of the building.

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hello!! i hated this chapter but it was necessary to set up the capture. i am trying to make the world building less and less confusing but let me know if you have questions!