CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Ivy Trouche was a fragmented piece of the most illustrious pulsars in the sky, and in her golden splendor, she rivaled the moon, almost as if she was a full-fledged star that demanded lunas to orbit around her. There had always been such quality to her—the force of gravity bowed to the witch. Attraction worked until everyone spun around only to please her with a centrifuge rotation. Even as she rose out of the shadows, her form crystalline and dream-induced, Riddle still felt the same aura pulsate, akin to dagger glints scraping at his skin.

She had been alive once—glorious as the incandescence of grand chandeliers over marble tiles, her voice made of viscous nectar and every move a feathered touch. Now, Ivy had been reduced to nothing more than a footnote in someone else's story, a portrait on a family tapestry that would one day burn as all perishable things did.

And her form was a phantasm, a shadow of what she had once been. It was as if her whole body had been coated in a lacquering substance, something that made the former witch seem worn. Ivy's forehead furrowed as she shot Riddle a trademark scowl—noxious and bothersome.

"What a snug, little place you have got here, Riddle," jeered Ivy, "Certainly better than the one you threw me in."

Tom scrunched his nose, already provoked by her high pitch and disdainful tone, "Help me get out of here, and I will make sure you do not return to purgatory."

"And how exactly will you do that?"

The boy moved on the floor, chains clanging against the metal bedpost as he strived to stand up. Riddle glimpsed down at his wrists, noting the injuries as his joints screeched from wear and tear. His inky coat covered his form, and underneath a wool sweater barely managed to shield Tom's body from the coldness of the cell. It had been shredded around the shoulder, the sleeve barely hanging from a few threads.

"Let me worry about it," aloof azure eyes settled on the spirit, and in them, surged fanaticism unlike she had ever seen. Tom was not sure what Ivy had seen from her purgatory, he doubted it was much, and he intended to keep her out of the loop. She was a self-righteous person, and if she found out what Riddle's end plans were, Trouche would not hesitate to leave him behind.

"I do not trust you," puffed the witch, "And how did you even get here? How did you call me? I knew you were up to no good, Riddle. I could smell it off of you like potent sewer leakage, but this..."

"The fewer questions you ask, the easier it is for me not to lie to you."

"Because that is reassuring."

"I am not here to offer you comfort, Trouche. How I reached out to you matters little. Point is—we can help each other. Call it a pact of mutual interest, if you must," muttered Tom, already working on freeing up space around the cell in order to perform necromancy. First, he had to convince the other Slytherin to help him by deactivating the magic-constricting barrier.

"I might not have reached Hell, but even I know signing a deal with the Devil never works out in favor of the other party."

"Always so perspicacious, are you not? My word might mean less than a market bargain, but you have nothing to lose by making a deal with me. You help me get out of here, and I will make sure you go back to whatever awaits you after death." He could tell that his words enraged the girl. She had never liked it when he had the upper hand, and it happened more often than not.

Trouche crossed hands over her chest, and the turbulence inside was obvious in the way her lower lip quivered with indignation. Golden curls bounced as she neared Riddle gradually, lowering until they stood at the same level, and tilted her head as if searching for something. Perhaps, a sign that he was lying, or a muscle tic that revealed uncertainty. But there was only conviction in steely irises, something crude and raw.

"Fine," Ivy softened as something else took over her stare, "But I have a request."

"What is it?"

"I want to say goodbye."

Tom's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"To Varya," continued Ivy, pushing herself to stand straight. "Before I died, we were at odds. I had pushed her too hard; I wanted her to detach herself from you because I only saw ruin in her future. We were supposed to talk, but then—"

Ivy held her breath and closed her eyes shut. The memory of her fall had replayed endlessly in her limbo, penance for a tarnished soul, except her sin belonged to another. Trouche knew that much. The spirits had told her the moment she had been locked inside her own torment. There was corruption that clung to the skeleton of her soul, and instead of marrow, hooks of obscurations dug in her spinal canal. It was easy to deduct who had been responsible.

"Anyhow," she collected herself, "I want to say goodbye. Properly, this time. To Varya, to Felix, and even to Della. I believe we have a few things to set straight."

Tom took in a sharp breath, bitting on the inside of his cheek, "Della is dead."

Bewilderment flashed on Trouche's face at once, and if she had not already been translucent, a ghastly glare might have fastened itself on her skin. She blinked slowly, possibly taking in the information and letting her mind process it. Riddle wondered what she felt in that moment, knowing that the person that had led to her death had met a tragic end. Was it satisfaction? Was it a wretched feeling of pleasure? He would have certainly taken delight, had it been him in that situation. There was nothing more thrilling than hurting those who had tried to deceive you.

He had no sympathy for Della Beauchamp, although admittedly, the rotten feelings were tied more to her cowardliness rather than her blood status. Her ending had been helpful to the Knights, at least—a loose knot that had hooked itself. Tom had expected casualties, and perhaps that was one of the actual divergences between the Knights and the Virtues, the sinners and the saints.

The Virtues would die martyrs, their ivory plumes scattering in snowstorms of righteousness. But the Knights—they had no plan to do such thing, for when Lucifer had fallen, he had made his apocalyptic crater a hollow in the underworld, a place of perdition. They would do much the same. Their deaths, if necessary, would have them burn in the fires of Hell and destruction.

"How?" whispered Trouche, her arms tightening around herself as if she were to be sick.

Riddle scoffed, "You may ask her when you return, Trouche. I do not intend to waste my time on discussing those who let death's veil tighten around their sight."

He twisted in his spot, chains rattling as Riddle used the wall as support to rise to his feet. The fight and his lack of magic had left him somewhat weakened, but not for long. The boy's mind spiraled as falcon eyes skimmed the room, taking in the construction and the possibilities. He would raze the building if he had to, but Riddle preferred his escape to be somewhat stealthy. The element of surprise was essential, for if he simply attacked and demolished his cell, the Acolytes could reach Lestrange before he did.

"Now," began Riddle, making Trouche pay attention to his words, "I need you to push through the wall opposite of me. On the outside of the door, there should be a strand of my hair knotted around the lock. Simple pagan witchcraft, fortunately, Winterbour did not take into consideration the possibility of me summoning a spirit. You ought to deactivate it by channeling the dark magic."

Ivy nodded, although reluctant, her feet shuffling in place as she gazed at the stone wall. With one move, she floated through the space, her body disappearing beyond the material, and Riddle held his breath. He waited patiently, although each second without his magic made his bones whine with aversion as if his body had not been made to be normal. Tom was an extraordinary person, and his magic was only another factor that added to his grandeur.

At once, the sorcery returned to his body, setting his veins alight as if they had been desiccated, and ichor pulsed through his system, blanching every tissue in acidic sanctification. Tom floundered in his steps, nostrils flaring as the scalding sensation spread until veins drummed against his temples, and he threw his head back. He was inebriated on sacrilege, and it tasted like fine dust of chipped bones—pulverized graves he dug with viridescent spells.

The wizard pulled on the chains, lips susurrating a spell that sliced at the metal, and his manacles clattered against the ground, the clinking sound pounding in his head. Tom glanced at his torn wrists, the way negrified skin appeared to be almost scintillating, lagoons of burst veins clustering underneath shattered layers. If he looked close enough, he could see bone peeking from beneath, ivory scalding in the dim light of his cell.

The skin stitched itself closed as he murmured another spell, and Riddle's lips pulled in a terrible smirk—he relished in seeing his sorcery make him inhuman, invincible, a demigod amongst feeble clay-beings. He drew in a deep breath, and it almost scalded his lungs, a spongy organ that spasmed from the strain on his body.

Tom knew that even with his Horcrux, his vessel was vulnerable. It could be damaged, destroyed even, and while the dark magic would preserve his soul and make him able to resurrect, his prime body would cease to exist. So, even as his magic repaired his shredded tissue, the wizard wondered what would come of it, should he ever die.

"Now what?" puffed Trouche as she reappeared in the room, her throat tightening at the deranged look the wizard shot her.

It was gone as soon as it came, and his face settled in something less lunatic, more focused. Riddle cleared his throat, moving around the room to test his movement, to see if there were any bones that had been broken or bruised in the battle. When he decreed his health to be in a good enough standing, he leaned down and picked up his chains. Tom glanced at the heavy end of one of them, weighing it in his palm. Then, with a swift move, he slammed it into the wall.

"Merlin, are you planning to destroy this cell?" screeched a voice from the nearest room, and Riddle frowned. Right. Dimitrov.

"Dimitrov, I need you to describe the path out of this cellar to Trouche," explained Riddle, kneeling beside the wall and picking up a stone he had dislodged with his manacles. With a curt move, he sliced open his finger, drawing a symbol onto the wall.

As Lydia spoke from the other end of the wall, Riddle focused on the marked spot. Petal-colored lips scurried, a current of words falling from his mouth as he focused on the dark spell. Over the past few months, the wizard had preoccupied himself with studying the most macabre of curses, rotten chants that twisted the blurry edges of death itself. Necromancy had never been an easy subject, but Tom was no ordinary wizard.

He turned his head, watching Ivy's form pulsate until there was more nuance to it, not quite a breathing person, but not a shadow soul either. His Resurrection stone, combined with Riddle's intricate spell, offered the dead a chance to pass to the realm of the living while keeping some physical capabilities. They could touch objects, and if they focused enough, even grasp them in their hold. Poltergeists.

Still, they were not living, breathing things. They had no sense of touch, smell, or taste, merely shadows with clustered particles that allowed them to interact with their surroundings. As such, they could not be considered resurrected, but rather tormented souls with powerful capabilities.

"You must walk upstairs and find the grand key to the cells," instructed Riddle, watching nervousness pass over Trouche's face. He almost wanted to grimace at her weakness. She had never been a good contestant for his group, not with her reluctance to dirty her delicate hands and her unyielding mind. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and at least, the girl had proved herself useful in death.

Ivy pursed her lips, eyebrows furrowing in wonder as she glanced at her hands. They seemed more stable now, tone turning them from washed-out ivory to a shade similar to her normal color. Still, the emptiness that settled in her bones did not shatter. It adhered to her figure, sodden coldness stroking her cheek as if Death itself breathed against her face.

Regardless, her fingers tightened with resolve. If this is what she had to do in order to ascend, then so be it. God could only scold her so much, for it was his misjudgment that had placed the witch in such a position. Ivy shot Riddle one last look before passing through the wall again.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The scorching sun scalded her skin, making the splinched tissue on her right arm and leg throb with a horrifying sensation. The fragrance of crisp grass was barely registrable over the pain, sorrow ink wilting on blazing cheeks as the witch turned on her back. Ebony eyelashes fluttered open, and the world whirled at once, rays cascading down upon her body until she could almost taste arcadia on her bottom lip. Ananke's chest moved as a sob of agony escaped her form, and she felt paralyzed, unable to push through the nauseating injuries all over her body.

What a foolish girl she had been to believe that apparating on another continent in a moment of panic would do her good.

She convulsed as sensation swept back in, assaulting her nervous system with a fusion of cherry-ripe sunlight and drowning agony, making a greek tragedy of her suffering. Her feet, bare of any shoes since she had decided heels were not made for running away from a massacre, twitched as her body fought against the influx of torment. Tawny locks pooled around her head, blood catching at the roots from an earlier injury, turning her a scarlet sylph with a sorrowful ending.

The dense air at the top of the Andes mountains almost smothered Navarro, and from her position between heaps of vegetation, she saw chimney smoke eddying along the horizon, the only mark of the empath clan residing between the high peaks.

The witch drew in a sharp breath, and it burned her lungs, yet she stifled another sob that ravaged her being, trying not to dwell on the way chunks of her skin were gone, or how one of her legs was twisted underneath her body at an odd angle.

Instinct, it turns out, was that in a moment of high intensity, an empath's mind reacted to potent emotions and sized control over sorcery. In such circumstances, should a novice witch try to apparate out of a massacre, her psyche would immediately guide her to the one place that had always been a symbol of safety.

For Ananke, it happened to be half-way across the world.

Smothering, but safe nonetheless.

Unfortunately, her one semester of apparition had not prepared her body for such a long journey, and as such, Ananke's broken figure now stood on viridescent fauna, trying not to choke on her own saliva as her lungs began failing.

"Ananke?" a voice called out, followed by a familiar string of Spanish that made the witch's heart swell, dimming the pain for a few seconds before it flooded back in with a tidal wave.

Hands grabbed at her face, but all the empath could register was the way the pressure made shadows gather like pearls of sorrow in her eyes, smothering her vision and making the world twist. Shouts rang across the estate, and feet waddled on fresh grass as the world began to muffle. Navarro was not entirely sure why, but dampness collected underneath, drenching her emerald provincial dress and staining it. Her heart drummed erratically as a numbness made her digits tingle, slicing on the pain and replacing it with faint awareness.

Ananke's throat went surrealistically dry as if a witch had used a spell to deplete her body of hydration, and she felt the ground swallow her whole. Something was buried deep inside, an Olympic fire that made her ribcage hurt and screech with each pitiful breath she took in. Feathered scratches fostered on the roof of her mouth as her tongue swelled. The witch's mettle dissolved by the second, replaced instead by an airy feeling that felt disturbingly close to dying.

"Se está desangrando," the bird-like voice cried out from above, perhaps a seraph meant to announce the toll of church-bells. The empath coven had always been stringent with their funeral services, memorials of burning and weeping that were carried out deep in the family mausoleum.

The last thing Ananke saw before her vision went out was a healer leaning over her body.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The scent of herbal tea was potent in the confinement of Lev's designated bedroom. Shadows traced the ceiling as their master lay in his bed, vacant eyes gazing at the cracks above and wondering what it would take for the world to crumble down on him. His nose scrunched as the aroma of natural berries cascaded over the scalding pot, and he turned in his bed to watch Elladora Selwyn slip another calming brew in his drink.

"I will not do anything irrational," his vocal cords constricted in a raspy sound, a consequence of hours of endless mourning. Still, the hint of uncertainty in his voice made Myung cringe, and he cleared his throat before thumping a heavy hand against his chest.

Feline eyes snapped to his face in a flurry, and Elladora's gaze narrowed down until Lev felt that he was being torn into pieces meant to be scrutinized. Perhaps, it would have made more sense for the witch to break him apart, to take advantage of the fissures in his soul and instability, then make of him what she desired. A weapon, a soldier—anything to give him purpose now that he had failed his destiny so miserably.

A name lodged in his mind, sealed by mausoleums built in its wake as the shadow of grief lay withered flowers upon an empty grave. Lev could barely stand the memory of his sister, as only the thought of her name brought shame upon him. Shame and grief. He felt as if part of him had been ripped from a whole, and now he was meant to stand on one foot and fight with one arm—be half a person, half a wizard. The Myung siblings, although separated by one year in age, had been hip-bound since the moment they had found each other.

Lev could still vaguely remember the earliest memory he had of Indra. It had been a few months before their father had died from consumption. Wind and hail had declared war upon the Myung residence, a fairly shabby apartment on the lower levels of their home-town. The water levels rose with each stroke of nature, banging upon the basement windows like ghosts on a defaced tomb, and between the walls of concrete and the lack of furniture, an echo of the storm carried throughout the rooms. One of the glass panels that led to the serpentine roads had shattered, and Lev's parents had struggled to contain the flooding.

His father, who had a bad leg from the war and a predisposition towards alcohol, had stumbled forward, cutting his soles on the piece of shards. A painful cry had rung out, accompanied by the boisterous sound of thunder, and the two siblings had snuggled together under their parents' bed, tears trailing down young cheeks. Indra, who had been only two years old at the time and had still lacked a cohesive way of communication, had resorted to clinging onto her brother's shirt.

It had been him that was terrified of storms, and although his powers had not blossomed yet, continued emotional stimulus had had shadows form lamenting monsters in the corner of the chamber, extending to the ceiling as the wind animated their sounds. Lev had been terrified, and that, in turn, had activated Indra's powers, who had formed a cupola of light to protect them by instinct.

The reminiscence of the young witch made Lev's eyes flood with an ocean of salt and sorrow, and he took in a shaky breath, trying to settle his mind. Still, one thought persisted—what became of a creature of shadows when his lighthouse shattered?

Elladora cleared her throat from the side, making the boy's eyes snap upward, and Lev's face fell in a stone sculpture, a reminiscence of infamous carvings on Greek monuments. He had always had such control over his emotions, a mask of impassiveness to hide the coldness and isolation within.

"Abraxas sent word. He is in a pub across the sector and shall meet us by sunrise. I advise you to pull yourself together for the sake of everyone else," her words were harsh, a characteristic snarkiness she reserved for those who vexed her.

Myung pursed his lips but made no effort to argue with the girl, for she was a siren amongst men, and with a single order, she had the rest of the Knights captivated in her trance. There was something powerful that nested inside Elladora Selwyn, a sizzling flame that not even tides of sorrow could extinguish, and Lev was not sure if he admired it or feared it.

"You might want to—" began Selwyn as she folded a few towels from one of the corners of the room, which had undoubtedly been left behind by Avery. Still, her words staggered, as if something heavy pressed them down. "Rosier will not be entirely sane when he comes. I believe you should...reach out to him. Carry out a small service for the parted. It might not do much, but everyone should be mourned."

"The fae folk does not mourn," breathed Lev, sunken eyes falling upon his hands. Obscurations swirled around long digits, sinking into veins and having them turn an inky nuance as they pulsated through the boy's body.

Selwyn furrowed her eyebrows, "Excuse me?"

With a lethargic move, Lev let his head hang slightly forward, barely twisting it to glance at her as strands of hair fell forwards, "We do not bury our people. There is nothing to bury, and an empty tomb serves more to the living than to the parted."

Discomfort etched in the fine lines of Elladora's visage, her forehead creasing with wonder, "What do you do, then?"

"We avenge them."

Tacturnity could only do so much to fill in a space void of connections, and malaise blossomed in the cracks of unspoken words, covering rusted cogs of shattered minds like callous mold. Outside, the weather continued to shift between a state of freezing temperatures to daggered rain, something cold and piercing that sliced on tender skin. The greying hues of downpour shrouded the small pub, and thunder boasted over the horizon in a weeping outcry. Heavy drops arrowed against the windows of the small room, and the breeze from the failing thermal insulation made the candle in Elladora's hand flicker.

The chamber itself smelled of the tepid tea, vapors no longer whirling over the cup as Lev leaned across the bed, sizing it in his hands. He brought it to his lips, knowing that it had been tampered with by the witch, and welcomed the slight twinge of the calming potion. Across from his bed was another identical twin mattress, covered in expensive vestment that did not resemble his modest black tunics. Nicholas Avery had thrown garments over the wool covers in an attempt to search for his sharpening toolbox. The sound of metal upon metal had made Lev's mind pound with familiarity, so he had been forced to ask the boy to carry his affairs elsewhere.

"Still," continued Elladora, eyeing his every movement as if he were a lunatic meant to attack at any moment, "it would do Rosier good."

That settled the matters, then. It was not for a communal good that the wine-witch asked Myung to carry out a funeral service, but rather some sort of comfort for the socialite. It was a punny thing, a tussle that would do Indra's spirit no favor, but Lev knew that he had to at least attempt to fit in. He no longer had his sister to hide behind. And as terrifying as it might have been for the anxious boy, the sinking loneliness inside was a far worse fate.

A knock sounded at the door, and they both turned to find Maxwell Nott standing in the doorframe, one hand in his pockets and the other one on the wooden entrance. Lev almost frowned at his attire—refined pants with a dark tawny vest, fitted over a white blouse with ruffled sleeves. Over the past months, the archivist had preferred warm sweaters and loose pants, if only to take away from the discomfort he felt inside. Now, with his memory fully returned, Maxwell intended to be every bit the book-expert he had once been.

He pushed his sandy hair out from his eyes, gesturing loosely towards the hallway, "Avery needs you."

Myung noticed he was only talking to Elladora and avoiding his gaze. He frowned.

"What happened now?" sighed the potion-master, dusting off the skirt of her straight dress and twisting her braid in a bun.

The archivist shrugged, "I might have started a discussion on whether all bread was toast and all toast was bread. Now, he is trying to set up the toaster and prove a point, but he is unsure how to operate such devices. Something about his servants doing the cooking, not him."

"And is this what I have become? A woman meant to help a simpleton figure out how to make a sandwich?" scoffed the girl, red lips pursing together. Elladora shook her head in discontent but pushed out of the room regardless. They could not afford the power to go out during a storm.

The door swung shut behind her, leaving Maxwell and Lev alone. The younger student avoided the shadowmancer's gaze still, promenading around a room like a cat meaning to find its place. Forest eyes punctured from behind locks of grainy hues, and Nott drew in a sharp breath before sitting down on Avery's bed.

"Is something bothering you?" queried Myung, feeling nervousness settle in his bones. A string of tension seemed close to snapping in the room, and that made him uneasy.

Maxwell glanced upwards, and although several meters apart, Lev could almost pinpoint every freckle on his tall nose, scattered like jewels on a broken necklace. The archivist's jaw was set in something between frustration and hesitation, and that made something stir in Myung's abdomen. The sort of sensation one felt before a catastrophe.

"Did you enjoy taking me for a fool?"

The curt question cut like a pointed dagger, snapping the cord and releasing all the resentment that had accumulated in the past months. Confusion cracked on Lev's face, and shadows spiraled from his hands and up the walls, almost as if scared of the conversation that was to follow.

"I am sorry?" asked Myung, not piecing together the context clues.

"Yes," puffed Nott, "You should be. Sorry, that is. You should be apologetic for taking advantage of my state in order to scheme your way through. Perhaps, you thought I would never figure it out, and that might have been the case, had Evergreen not returned everything. You see, I am quite clever. Many would agree. And I would not have brought this up considering the recent passing of your sister. But it has been burning me inside out. I cannot simply keep it in anymore."

His sentences were short, they cut to the subject, and Lev almost let the astonishment of hearing the boy talk for so long wash out the shame that built on like a hurricane. It dismantled Myung's well-put persona, leaving him susceptible to attack, and he felt the swords swing on his fate. Part of him had expected his actions to one day have repercussions, and Lev had foolishly led himself to believe that it would not matter when the secret came out.

Who cared if Maxwell would hate him? He was a Knight, a future leader of terror that would serve a Dark Wizard. There should have been no mortification at facing Nott's hurt stare.

But that is not what he felt at the moment, for as Lev let his eyes take in the betrayal painted on Maxwell's face, his own mirrored the horrifying emotions. He was not sure how he had begun caring for the young archivist, but it had happened. Perhaps, it was during the hours of training where he had watched him grow from a secluded boy to someone who shot arrows at disdainful witches to save his friend. Regardless, Myung had come to a conclusion that, while still retaining his terrifying purpose of destroying the world, Maxwell had always been an idealist. He was not powered by hatred as Riddle was, nor by pride like Malfoy, but rather by his desire to unravel the world's rawness. He wanted it stripped down to bareness and draped in luxurious vestments of knowledge. And that humanized him.

"When Evergreen gave me my intellect back, she said that there was torture in knowing I could have prevented everything. While somewhat weakened, I could never focus on my whims and thoughts for long enough to grow suspicious," explained Maxwell, pulling on his sleeves with irritation. "Now, it all seems so painfully obvious that I feel humiliated at being deceived. Impressed to a certain extent, but still very much humiliated."

"I never—" began Lev before his words decayed on his tongue. What should he say? That he had never meant to hurt Nott? That would have been a lie. Sure, he had not intended to explicitly harm him, but the threat had been there, and he had not truly cared for it. His intent on protecting the Virtues had been more potent. But he had not known Nott at the time.

"Save your colorful lies. I have had quite enough of them," Nott's acidic tone made Lev shudder, "I am not sure what you thought you were doing. Extracting information from me might have been beneficial at some point, but when you found the mirror, you kept going. So I must ask you—why?"

The shadowmancer felt his tongue go bonedry against the rooftop of his mouth as if dusted butterflies had flapped their wings in his abdomen, making the irritating agent travel up his throat and to his respiratory system, then his mouth. Maxwell's face was a deep shade of berry red, chagrin a nuanced emotion that inundated his features, and still, he managed to appear as academic as possible.

"I am not sure," babbled Lev at once, words stumbling out like anointments for his sins. But the man before him was no saint. He would not listen to his confessions and forgive. "I just—I enjoyed your company, and I knew that I could not simply extract myself from your life. It would have been suspicious. But I am sorry if I hurt you."

Maxwell lifted an eyebrow, "Are you now?"

"Yes."

His smirk seemed to be mocking, "And what shall I do with your apologies? You believe your words carry much weight after deceiving me for months?"

Myung frowned, his chest rising before falling softly, "I do not believe that you should trust me. However, you came here for something, so it is clear to me that you value what I say to a certain degree."

"I would watch my scornful attitude if I were you. You are not exactly in a position to be authoritative."

"And what would you have had me do?" erupted Myung suddenly, emotions a volcano deep within. "You were manipulating all of us, lying to our faces. Your leader claimed he wanted collaboration yet withheld information. You mean to tell me that, should you have been in the same situation, you would not have done the same? Because that—"

"No," interrupted Nott softly, his eyes settling on the boy, "I would have done worse."

That seemed to stop the shadowmancer from his tirade, and the baffling admittance was enough to have him at a loss of words. Lev shifted on the bed, feeling the wool bite at his skin and irritate it, but it was nowhere near as scalding as Maxwell's gaze.

"I am not here for an apology, you are right," confessed Nott, and then his eyes refused to settle on the boy opposite him once again, "I am here to admit something myself."

Lev blinked once, entirely confused.

"I am not sure if paupers like you have much knowledge on how the upper wizarding society works, but to put it plainly—it is a hassle. We are expected to grow up surrounded by our family's constraints, and become stringed puppets until we evolve into puppeteers. There is a vicious cycle amongst pureblood families, a way of being that nobody truly has reasoning for, yet we all follow it like blind bats, using the echo of the past as guidance."

Myung cleared his throat, "I am not quite following."

"To be concise—there is one purpose of family in our circle, and that is to breed heirs. All so that one day they might inherit the prestige and the burden, then carry on and make the world a worse place. Problem is, I have no desire to have children. I would much rather leave that to my cousins."

"I—" the shadowmancer stuttered, blinking fast as he tried to piece Maxwell's riddles together. "I mean, a lot of people do not want children, Nott. I am sure you will find a lady that—"

"That is the problem," sighed Nott, crossing his legs, "I do not fancy women."

It seemed to be an easy task for Maxwell to render Lev speechless. The shadowmancer coughed, surprised by the confession, yet still not understanding what that had to do with his sins. Would it not have been more appropriate for the boy to have this conversation with Avery? They were undoubtedly closer, and while Lev had some experience with both women and men, he was not entirely certain how to tutor another in such things. They were, after all, in the 1940s, and that left their options to drown in a desiccated lake of possibilities.

"Well," Lev said slowly, suddenly very preoccupied with the cover of his bed, "I congratulate you on—on understanding yourself. And I, uh...I am glad you have come to this realization."

Maxwell rolled his eyes at his crimson face.

"I never cared much for women, but Lestrange and Avery assured me it was only a matter of growing up. They would set me up on dates, and I would have the woman crying by the time the hour was up. Of course, not on purpose, but simply because I could never comprehend what it was about them that ought to make me feel things. They were beautiful, that was certain. Some were even intelligent. But I could not bring myself to feel. I thought myself naive, of sorts, or distracted. My studies were so significant, I came to the conclusion that I was too focused on my tasks for any romance."

A tense silence followed, a space that should have been occupied by a realization or an explanation, but instead, Nott took the time to analyze Lev's expression, scrutinizing every twitch of facial muscles.

"Anyhow," continued the boy, "I realized those things were not entirely true. I could feel things. And I know that now—because those emotions that Lestrange described and attributed them to the presence of women? I feel them for you."

Confessions were not something foreign to the former soldier. Lev had received plenty at Hogwarts—dazzling cards with scented scribblings, mouth-watering bonbons wrapped in neat packages, even charms for luck. A good portion of them had ended up in the grasps of Scarlet and Indra, the two more than willing to take the pestering gifts off of his mind. The shadowmancer had no intention of frolicking in a place that would never be a home, with people that knew nothing about him and fawned over his looks. Therefore, another admittance of passion should have not affected him much, yet Lev found himself gawking at Nott as if he had opened the door to the underworld.

He was not sure what he felt, it was a terrifying sensation, but there were threads of something else blended in. Something that, given the circumstances of them starting out on rivaling sides, should not have been possible. Still, everything dulled by a tsunami of grief, and even the slightest spark of anything remotely positive made Myung wallow in self-disgust. His sister had just died, yet here he was, thinking of other things.

Even more so, there was something else in his heart entirely, devotion to an Obscurial witch that had been suppressed for so long it seemed almost rotten. Lev had known better than to step certain boundaries, yet with the new information digging graves of affection, a resurrection of terror and emotion engulfed him.

"And I know," continued Maxwell, not expecting a response, "that you fancy Varya. It is quite obvious for everyone with a brain. But I am fairly certain I am not indifferent to you either. Because if that were the case, you would not have spent time with me after your duty was over. You would not have helped me learn how to fight, thus having me rely on something other than my intelligence. But see, that was a mistake on your own part."

Lev tried to stop his hands from trembling, yet he could not, and so he glanced at Nott as he stood up from the bed, walking over to the door, "And why is that?"

"Because to give power to someone who already sees themselves as a villain is never a good move, Myung," admitted Maxwell, and then his face shifted into something else. The intellect was still there, the aristocratic quality of a refined mind, yet a new glimmer shimmered like a pulsating diamond. Gone was the vulnerability and nativity of a dependent boy, and instead, elegant crudeness settled in a nefarious smirk. "This is not a confession, Myung. Do not be mistaken."

"What is it, then?"

"Revenge," he answered so easily, so gallantly, it made Myung's insides twist, "Because you have a savior complex. You fuss over order and control, and you fix things. So, what else would harm you more than to know you have hurt me so deeply? That you have betrayed your own morals by unknowingly feeling something for me?"

Maxwell opened the door, stepping outside and glancing over his shoulder. He shot one last look to an incredibly pale Lev and watched as the calming brew sizzled out, having mortification dance on marvelous features.

"The archivist's purpose is not only to gather knowledge but also to protect it. So next time you try to cross me, think about the self-disgust you feel now."

And with that, he shut the door.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sound of alarm came in with the early tendrils of a dewy sunrise, scattering through the Londonese outskirts like an angel's shriek. Ridding on horses, three figures emerged from the end on the boulevard, their faces contorted into something obscure. Dark capes clung to damp shoulders as the last hissings of rain scattered over the somber streets, and lamp-posts flickered alive as the galloping vibration echoed through the neighborhood. Varya's hood flew off of her head from the wind, revealing braided hair and steely eyes. Her hands gripped the reins harshly, and she shot Abraxas a questioning look when he hissed in pain. With a swift move, he lifted his sleeve, exposing reddened tissue around the dark mark.

Tom Riddle had finally raised the trumpets—Armageddon was to be bestowed onto those who had pointed swords at their chests.

Petrov whipped the reins, angling herself on the animal's neck as it darted past the last few meters, then pulled harshly as it stopped in front of a ghastly building. Its windows resembled pustules on dying tissue, paint chipped in every possible corner, and multiple wooden boards swung from rusted nails. Out front, absolute beauty contrasted the filthy surroundings, and Elladora wrapped the coat tightly around herself.

"He called," she announced at once, eyes sliding from Varya's figure to Rosier's crude expression. Astonishment flickered, then stomped out almost immediately. There was little time to worry about emotions, lest their hesitation made the number of bodies rise. Still, panic struck her face, "Where is Letrange?"

Varya frowned, "I thought everyone else was with you."

Terror dawned as if the day of judgment had passed, and Elladora shook her head, "No," came a breathy response, "It is just me, Nott, Avery, Parkin, and Myung. Everyone else—"

"They must have been captured," filled in Avery as they all gathered outside, eyeing the horses with skepticism, "We ought to apparate at the location immediately. The mark will guide us, but it is best we not go on foot. Surprise is key, and I say we jump into an attack."

The Eastern witch frowned at that, finding the plan to be faulty. Apparating in the vicinity of whatever cellar Dalibor might have inhabited would undoubtedly trigger multiple alarms and defensive spells. The place would be crawling with creatures, symbols would be scribbled upon walls to curse anyone that tried to slither in.

"That is not—" began Varya, but Abraxas cut her off.

Lev shot her an apologetic glance, knowing that the Virtues' numbers had been reduced to a minority, therefore allowing the Knights to guide the discussion.

"I disagree. We ought to sneak in. We have to be careful; our numbers have been diminished significantly. We have lost one valuable soldier," Varya did not miss the shadow that passed Lev's face or the way Ren flinched, "and another three have been taken. I do not see Navarro around here either. We can only hope they are alive."

"Well—" started Varya again, irritation growing by the minute.

"That is ridiculous, Malfoy. We have to strike them back!"

"No, Avery. Do not let your bloodlust blind you. Tactics—"

"Screw your tactics! You might be Riddle's right-hand, but his absence does not make you—"

"—are the only way we could ever aspire to win this. And frankly, even with Icarus gone, you are not our strategist. You might think your knives—"

A loud sound reverberated through the clearing as a force ransacked the area, having windows slam shut, wooden planks burst into splinters. The group turned to glance at Varya, who held tightly onto her horse, eyes an ivory color as her Obscurus soared around to gather their attention. Her irises flickered into their normal raven color, and the wrath that pulsated on her face was indescribable.

"Your leader is not here," she rasped, her nostrils flaring at the insubordination, "And I might have given the position away to Felix a long time ago, but make no mistake—I have no intention on doing this again. We are marching forward according to my plan, as I am the only one here familiar with the way Dalibor works. Now, if you are done bickering over insignificant details, I suggest you all grab a horse from the stable across the boulevard. Because we are not apparating there and activating all of his banishing spells."

With that, she kicked her shoes, launching the horse forward and past the baffled Knights. Indeed, they would not take kindly to being ordered around by someone they identified as an outsider, but Varya had grown tired of having them underestimate her. Perhaps it was arrogance, or maybe an inexplicable desire to whip at those who had manipulated her, but the witch would have them walk on burning coal and follow her whims. After all, she was the one that had been the key to everything since the start.

The world would mold to her desires, to the darkness that rooted itself within, and become a malleable clay from which she would sculpt an empire.

After a few ticks of the clock latched around her neck, she registered the sound of half a dozen horses behind her, and a smile rejuvenated her features before slipping in a satisfied smirk. If ichor burned the veins of the gods, then what pulsated through the bloodstream of the sinners? Was it the scalding sensation of vexation, the sanguine of those they butchered on battle hills? Varya had been foolish to believe that associating herself with the Virtues would subdue the terror inside—after all, she was the forgotten sin of hopelessness, that which made acolytes turn on their emperors, a maiden that raised armies from the unfaithful.

The rain poured down upon her skin as she broke the first line of trees, following the Thames river as per Abraxas' indications, and everything in her being screamed with conviction. Around her, trees were pushed to the side by her Obscurus, making way for the galloping group to rush through the fauna. They knew time was a pressuring thing, and each minute lost was a minute where the lives of those they cared for were endangered.

The portrait of a demigod slithered in Varya's mind, and her heart hammered at the idea of Riddle being hurt or lacerated. She doubted they would instigate his fury, but Dalibor was not a man known for being caring or nurturing with those he valued. Part of her recalled the torturous training Aleksander Dolohov had gone through during their early years, as well as his face a passable figure in the experiment dungeons. Sometimes, it was hard to discern the truth from the fable, but the boy was too wicked for his own good, and that was a sign of a tortured soul.

Bloody Seer. Petrov had been more than infuriated with Malfoy when he had told her of the boy's supposed corpse in the woods. But she knew that her spell had been weak, ineffective to a certain extent, and carried no doubt in her mind that the bastard had survived. Fortunately, he would be incapacitated for a few days while his heart muscles recovered, but that did not mean he was out of the game.

And he was a dangerous pawn in a scattered game of chess. One that could easily take on a queen or a king.

He had to be eliminated.

"Varya," called out someone from behind, and the girl turned her head to glance at Rosier as he caught up. The witch's throat constricted once their eyes met, and she saw in them something putrefied. Ren had always been a mournful boy, but the maliciousness that lay beyond the veil of compassion he had fostered for Indra was brutally exposed, and it sent a shiver down Petrov's spine. "Promise me something."

"What is it?" she called out over the storm, pushing her damp hair out of her face. A few trees passed between the pair, obstructing her view for the briefest moment, and when Rosier came back, his expression was deadly.

"You will make them suffer," his voice was guttural, noxious, and it almost twisted Varya's insides. It hurt her to know they had all been shattered at such a young age. "Promise me."

Her nod was curt, but she could not bear to voice out such a promise. Not yet. While the bloodlust settled deep within the shattered poniards of her blackened soul, the divulgence of her inner turmoil seemed blasphemous. If Varya were to bring terror upon the Acolytes, she could not let her conscience bother her.

Across the valley, the river Thames swirled to the right, currents meeting the torrent of the sea, clashing in a medley of fresh water and salt. The saline odor transversed the clearing, and between clusters of pointed trees lay a solitary building made of concrete, with few windows that gazed outside. Varya's temples throbbed with adrenaline, their rescue mission almost in their grasp, and she felt sweat trail down the side of her head regardless of the passing downpour.

But something was off.

Blended in with the briny tang of the marine, the reek of charred flesh permeated their surroundings. It irritated her nostrils, so much so that the girl had to use her dark cape to cover her nose, and the dampness of the atmosphere only made it more potent. Her heart drummed in a shattered ribcage, pushing against the bandages that covered her previous dagger wound. She tried not to dwell on the pain or how it seemed as if her organ would push through Malfoy's stitches. Instead, she focused on the horizon.

Like scarecrows, two bodies stood on pikes, their heads sawed off, and their bodies burned beyond recognition. Crows circled the cadavers, diving in before pulling on the flesh, clawing through the charred muscle. Varya knew the possibility of their forms being those of Ananke and Scarlet, and she held back from vomiting to the side, trying to tell herself that it was only her imagination. Those could not be their bodies.

"What in Merlin's name?" puffed Nicholas from behind, pulling next to her on his horse. His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed harshly, and his eyes trailed the grounds, spotting a few more corpses placed at the windows of the highest towers.

They moved through the grass slowly, the deadened nature signaling that there were no acolytes waiting to pounce on them from the surroundings. Varya pulled her horse in front of the lowered gate, then marched through regardless of the group's protest behind her. More bodies piled up like sacks of grains inside the courtyard, thrown around as if to make a spectacle of death. Placed around to resemble guards, they had been toyed with like puppets, as if a mastermind had decided to stage a macabre play, directing their roles from behind veiled malignancy.

The witch felt her throat constrict at such a display of crudity, yet she pushed through until she reached the entrance, opening the wooden doors and letting their hinges rattle.

Inside, the halls were a tranquil tomb, and blood blanched stone walls in mosaics of mortality as if someone had manipulated it in order to paint a scene of sadism. Petrov placed a hand on the splattered liquid, feeling its oozy texture, and knew the carnage had only happened recently.

A loud crashing sound called out from the main salon, and Varya's eyes snapped towards that direction.

Felix hung around the doorframe, face void of any color as he took in the apocalyptic scenery. His eyes settled on Varya, and the witch nodded towards the source of the sound. The door stood at the opposite of a long hallway, fenced by two armed statues, yet Varya could glimpse the skin in the cracks of metal as if someone had stuffed corpses inside to make a mockery of the protective aura.

Her hand grabbed her wand almost immediately, and once Abraxas and Lev took her sides, she moved forward with slow steps, advancing until her hand rested on the timber doors. Her heart hammered inside, and Varya took in a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for whatever lay beyond.

Then, with a decisive move, she swung the door open.

Inside, perched upon what seemed to be an improvised throne at the end of a grand table, stood a callous boy unlike no other. Brutality was an everpresent mask, a second-skin that had been stitched with fate's needle, puncturing skin and sewing until what was left was more of a creature than an eighteen-year-old boy. Inky curls were doused in a darkened crimson liquid, dripping down the side of his face as he leaned it against his palm, lethargic eyes scrutinizing the Eastern witch. The edges of his lips curled upwards in a hellacious smirk, one that made her skin cover in goosebumps.

Varya lowered her wand, barely registering the weathercaster that stood on one of the chairs, darkened skin glimmering in the light of the flames that danced around her palms. Another girl stood covered in blood next to her; her mayhem of locks the same color as the liquid. Opposite of her, and on the beast's right side, there was a soldier with sunken eyes, and on the surface in front of him, a sword covered in sanguine.

"What have you done?" Varya's question came out in a terrorized breath, hands shaking as she took in a dozen Acolytes scattered across the room. Dead. Butchered. Burned.

Riddle gave her a smirk, and part of Varya knew he was a monster, but at that moment, she could have sworn a shadow of the Devil's mutilated wings projected behind him, "My little witch came to save me after all. Delightful."

He rose from his seat, gesturing at the empty seats, and the one at the other end of the table, surely reserved for her.

"Take a seat. We have just declared open war, and I fear they might strike back soon. It is time we prepare for a final battle."

And not even Satan could help them from their calamity.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

hey, I hate this chapter. idk what is up with my writing lately?

anyway, i published a new tom riddle fic. it is dark royalty core and a pretty gruesome retelling of the prince and the pauper. so yeah!

also, let me know if you want the discord link to the TSD server. dm me on Instagram (slthriddle) so that i can send it to you.

this chapter is dedicated to gomelr5 because she literally helped me plot out more than half of it. go read her fics rn!