"Maksim!"

He felt sick as soon as he heard the sound of his name being called—not because he did not like his own name, but because of the annoying witch from whose mouth it had emerged. He would know the high-pitched voice anywhere, and while Hilda had told him that Annika had not been punished for her actions, he was still unpleasantly surprised to hear it now, outside of Central Hall.

He paused on the chalk-white steps and turned around, unable to keep from scowling even when he saw she was with her father. They were looking up at him from the cobbles, with the Principle draped in deep red robes and Annika in a dress of the same colour. It was the same red Maksim was wearing; the same red everyone in Central Hall and Astracia would be wearing, for it was the colour Cliona had died in. The colour of bravery. People had been wearing it all week and would still be wearing it for weeks to come, for there had been dozens of deaths, and each day a new funeral was being held. Today it was hers.

It was clear from a quick glance that Annika had spent much time on her appearance, and though she looked just as she had before the lies and dark magic, Maksim sensed something different in her now—a shadow looming over her, tainting her porcelain skin and golden eyes. He wondered if people could see a shadow over him, too, the way he did when he looked in the mirror, or if really there was a shadow over everyone and he had just never noticed before now. 

Remy had noticed it—in Annika, at least. He hated himself for being too proud, too naïve, to have listened. Something began to bubble in the pit of his stomach, the same something he felt when he looked at his brother: hatred and betrayal, for even if he had never cared for the witch, he had thought he could trust her.

"I cannot stop. My mother has asked me to fill in for her until she returns, and there is much to be done before the funeral, I imagine," he said coolly, hesitating in front of the arch doorway that lead to Central Hall.

"And where is Hilda, might I ask? It is her job, not yours, to help with Council business," responded August.

Maksim sighed and shuffled back down the steps so that he would be on eye level with the Principle. It was clear he could not run off now, but he could ignore Annika, and so he did.

"You assume she tells me anything. That is quite bemusing." His eyes narrowed. He had still not forgiven his mother for keeping Erika and the key from him, and did not think he ever would. "She rushed off during breakfast claiming that she had a few errands to run, and that I must cover things for her here. I do not mind. Tykon is my friend, and I am happy to help with the funeral."

"Well, then, I hope your mother does not miss Cliona's funeral. She was a Council member. She deserves to be honoured by her fellow colleagues."

"I agree," nodded Maksim solemnly. "I am sure she will not miss it."

"Maksim, may we talk?" Annika asked in a timid voice from beside her father.

August looked between the two of them with stony grey eyes. "I will leave you two alone for the time being. Thank you for offering your help, Mr. Opal. Do not be too long, Annika."

He ascended the stairs and disappeared into the large threshold before Maksim had a chance to tell him it was not necessary. He had no desire to speak with his daughter.

He glared at her, wondering how it was she had the right to be here after all she had done. She had been a part of Ackmards group, a Dark One, and so had been a part of Cliona's death.

"How is it you have the nerve to come here today? You caused this."

"I did not kill Cliona," she responded quickly, lowering her eyes despite herself.

"You did not aid her, either. You were too busy trying to kill my mother and help Ackmard. Do not fool yourself into thinking you did not contribute to the war and the people who were killed in it."

A tear slipped from her eyes, but Maksim felt no pity. He knew better, now.

"Do you not think I know that? I lie awake at night, loathing myself for what I have done. I never wanted to hurt anybody, Max."

Max. When Remy had called him that so many times before, it had made him feel calm, but now it had the opposite effect. He tensed, tasting bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "Do not dare call me that."

It was clear from the way she blushed that she understood. "I am sorry," she whispered, gulping. "Remy..."

"Is none of your business, nor is anything I do. You might fool your father and the people around you, but you do not fool me," he spat. He could feel his wrists burning as magic began to spill from his veins and through his arms, and then his fingertips were buzzing with contained pressure. "I have seen what lies beneath the face paint and pretty dresses, Annika. I have seen your eyes when they are black. I have seen you determined to destroy. I have seen my mother lying on the kitchen floor because you attacked her. Do not look at me and speak to me, do not pretend, as though I haven't."

"I was unwell. I was stupid. I was filled with darkness, darkness I did not even know existed. I am so, so sorry. I know you owe me nothing, and I know you no longer trust me, but please, Maksim. Please forgive me."

His fists clenched. In a moment, he would explode again, and he hated Annika for bringing out whatever darkness was inside him. He hated feeling so unstable, so volatile, so out of control of his own magic and himself. He gritted his teeth together, trying to suppress it. "You told me you would do anything for me before you made the portal to Nil Lake."

"And I mean it still. If you let me, I will do anything to prove to you I am changed now. I will do anything to gain back your trust."

"Good," he exhaled shakily, trying to push back the magic threatening to erupt from his fingers. "Then you will stay away from me."

Her expression changed to one he had seen her use only once before and he stumbled back, an image flitting through his mind of Annika falling to the floor. He had caused that, and he had liked it. That had been the start of it, hadn't it? That day he had fought with grey magic instead of silver. That day he had realised what it felt like to use his power to harm, to throw Erika against a tree and to drain someone of consciousness. He imagined how it would feel to do that again now, and then shook his head to dispel such a thought. He was not that person.

Was he?

"Maksim." Annika's eyes widened, her voice sounding more urgent than he had ever heard it before. "Your hands."

He looked down at them, already knowing what he would find. They were dirty and blackened, raw where the skin had been healing from the injuries of Nil Lake. They were trembling, too, and he shoved them in his pockets, hoping he would not burn a hole in them.

"Stay away from me," he repeated, though this time he did not sound so confident.

He broke into a run as he ascended the stairs again, slowing only slightly as he reached the hall. He swerved through crowds of families, all wearing red, ignoring the stares he was given on the way. People would be wondering why he was here, why he was dressed in red, when it had been his brother who had lead the war and caused all of this. He was beginning to wonder himself.

He marched through the old corridors and grand staircases, glad when he neared his mother's office. The door had opened, almost coming off its hinges, as soon as it came into view, the first of the sparks falling from his hands like dripping water. He sprinted down the last corridor and into the office, not having the time to close the door before he fell apart.

It spewed from his hands, a fountain of grey that burned holes in the carpet. Maksim could barely catch his breath, watching himself as though he had left his own body and crawled into a new one. He collapsed against the wall and slid down it, his chest rising and falling with so much vigour he was sure his ribs would snap. His ears were buzzing, his vision blurred, each moment only worse than the last, for he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He was nothing but a spectator.

"Maksim!" someone was shouting above it all, a low, deep voice he had not heard in years. "Maksim, calm down. You must calm down!"

"I can't." His voice was not his own; it was strained, filled with a desperation he had never felt before now. His eyes and nose stung from the stench of burning metal, his whole body on fire.

"Stop fighting it." The voice said. He hadn't time to wonder why it was there, why he was there. "Breathe, my boy."

He forced polluted air into his lungs and felt the chaos begin to ebb. His sight was coming back, and he looked down at his hands. Smoke swirled from them, but they were no longer spitting out magic. They did, however, hold the evidence of it being used. They were covered in thick black dust.

He looked up, the buzzing in his ears fading. The face in front of him did nothing to calm his racing heart.

"Father," he murmured. The energy he had drained of himself was clear in the way he spoke, but he stood up anyway, moving clumsily away from the figure kneeling on the floor and using the wall for support as he did so. The last he had seen of this man was his back as he walked out of the door and out of Maksim's life. "You have chosen a rather inconvenient time to reenter our lives."

Alastair's blue eyes were identical to Maksim's own, save for the silver flecks. His hair, though, was all Ackmard's, brown and dirty, though wavy where Ackmard's was straight. After so long apart, it felt odd to be in the same room as him now, particularly after all that had happened while he had been away. Once, he had been loving and sensitive. Maksim had adored him, spent hours laughing or playing or reading with him. Now he may as well have been a stranger.

"I see that," his father responded, his eyes flickering to where the carpet had dissolved into ash. Luckily, there was no other evidence of what had just happened. "It is why I came. Your mother told me all that was happening, though she failed to mention this."

"She does not know, and you will not tell her."

"I will not need to. She will most likely torture it out of you when she finds her carpet charred to a crisp."

It was supposed to be a joke, but neither Maksim nor Alastair laughed. Instead, his father simply eyed him curiously, straightening up and placing his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He was clothed all in red. He was attending the funeral, then.

"I do not know why you are here, but if you are after my mother, she is out. With any luck, she will be back before the funeral."

Maksim treaded to the door. Somewhere between him racing in and Alastair finding him, it had been closed. He was thankful for that, for the last thing he needed was an audience. He rubbed his hands together in a sub-conscious gesture, wincing.

"We are not going to discuss this?" Alastair questioned.

"We have not discussed anything in years," Maksim responded without turning to face him. His hand was on the doorknob, ready to leave before he was tied up in a conversation he had no desire to be in. "I do not see why we would now. You are a little bit late for father-son bonding."

"Maksim," he sighed softly—guiltily. "I know—"

"I do not want to hear it." Maksim tried with all his might to keep his voice steady. The last thing he needed was to get angry again, when he had barely cooled off from the last time. "You made a choice to leave me. I made a choice to leave you, too. I have survived a long time without you, father."

"But you are in trouble. You need help, Maksim."

He shook his head, fighting the urge to scoff. "Not from you. Forget you saw anything. I have no doubt you will find it an easy and convenient thing to do, seeing as you forgot my existence for two-hundred years."

"Maksim—"

He had closed the door before he could hear another one of Alastair's words. He wandered down the corridor, hands hidden in his pockets, wondering if it was not too late to go home and forget about all that had already happened today.

More than that, though, he found himself aching for somebody who was not here. He had heard her name, thought of her, too many times today, and all it had done was remind him that she was gone. If she was here, he would not feel the shadows surging within him, weighing him down until he felt as though his bones were breaking.