The woman stood against the wall, posture erect, her long golden hair flowing with a faint sheen even in the dim light.
She was so quiet she seemed not alive, more like a lifelike statue that had been cast with a permanent binding spell.
At this moment, time seemed to stagnate, and the only sounds in the air were the scratch of a quill on parchment and the "tap tap" of Mundungus's toe tapping the floor as he forced himself to focus on the names on the list—
The price of dragon blood had dropped, the inventory of moon grass was severely deficient, and the African branch's expansion faced resistance... But even after tens of minutes had passed, he still couldn't completely calm his mind.
Of course, it was because of that presence in the corner, that intensely noticeable "decoration."
Though he knew very well that the woman had been bound by the boss, rendered virtually powerless—yet Mundungus could feel a kind of invisible pressure emanating from her, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand occasionally, uncontrollably.
"Damn it to hell…"
The man cursed inwardly, taking a big swig of the long-cold tea, attempting to quell that inexplicable irritability, and couldn't help but secretly glance once more at that figure—
The black and white maid outfit outlined a perfect curve, the sculpted elegance of her facial features, her long legs tightly bound by a form-fitting Muggle fabric—the woman seemed utterly out of place in this office reeking of tobacco and dust, yet somehow, the collision of the two formed a strange kind of harmony...
Unfortunately, at this moment, Mundungus had no amorous thoughts; rather, his mind was filled with the certainty that—this woman would definitely be a colossal headache.
However, this trouble had been personally entrusted to him by the boss, and for the sake of his own future meals and status, there was no way he could shirk responsibility—even since that Malfoy had joined, his status had started to decline, and as the boss's business expanded, if he didn't keep up…
After much consideration, perhaps, not dealing with this person in any way might be the best course of action under these circumstances—
However, just as Mundungus had finally settled his state of mind and continued to wrestle with the numbers on the list, Athena, who had been statue-like, moved almost imperceptibly.
Her gaze seemed to fall toward the man buried over the desk; in those perpetually hollow golden pupils, a flicker of hard-to-capture micro-light flashed by, rippling out like a stone thrown into an ancient well, only to quickly return to stillness.
"..."
What was that just now?
This thought wound around her heart like a cold venomous snake, swiftly and tightly.
Thoughts that had lain dormant within her for nearly half a month finally stirred again—unexpectedly, she had expected to be summarily executed, but had not anticipated that man who acted with utter recklessness would truly possess a rare and commendable contractual spirit—
The opposite party had not drained her emotions as he had with others, merely suppressed them—yes, suppressed them; subconsciously, the woman lowered her eyes to look at the flame-like markings on her arm.
The twisted, grotesque patterns reminded her of Hera's expression when hit by the Cruciatus Curse, of the scene where the other's figure twisted into a mass of pure energy—in that moment, deep within Athena's soul, a shiver of cold rose uncontrollably, but it was swiftly soothed by the warm sensation spreading from the flame markings.
Honestly, if it were up to her, there was absolutely no way she would let "herself," such an unpredictable factor, continue to live.
Likewise, she knew clearly that William Richard was by no means a soft-hearted individual; she didn't believe the almost unusable "intelligence" she provided held that much value, hidden beneath that seemingly casual exterior there lay a bottomless desire for control…
Therefore, she reckoned, her being kept alive certainly held deeper reasons.
Perhaps the man had even anticipated an "external contact" like today, and she was the bait deliberately cast?
The instant this conjecture arose, the woman's mind almost froze for a moment; for if this were truly the case, then any thought of escape might have already been anticipated, even expected by the other party. Everything she did, every struggle might only fuel the demon's plan…
...
Thus, the woman forced herself to withdraw from speculating about William's intentions, focusing all her attention on that fleeting whisper.
Who was it?
Hera? Impossible. She had personally witnessed and even facilitated the other's end; that once "ally" who had stood shoulder to shoulder with her, her existence had been entirely erased, her soul shattered into nourish that "Secret Vault," with no chance of reassembly.
Then it must be some lucky surviving Olympian gods?
Athena swiftly sifted through those familiar yet strange faces in her mind—Ares, broken beyond recognition, Hephaestus resigned to numbness, Demeter, Hestia and their kind had long lost their edge over the endless years, unwilling to awaken (meaning they had been squeezed dry)—…
Who else? Even those remaining might still have power, but by no means bore the personality to risk themselves, self-preservation had long since become instinct. To rescue a "Wisdom Goddess," potentially bringing about cataclysmic ruin? That didn't align with the usual self-serving logic of the gods.
Then the remaining possibilities dwindled to a handful, pointing towards a more shadowy direction—
The Prophet of the Ashwinder cult.
What was his name again…
Right, Victor Rookwood, the one who shattered into inauspicious black mist upon the altar, the one who had howled that abruptly disrupted invocation—"He."
That title wasn't particularly "valuable," even Athena herself had been addressed as such.
But indeed.
The woman's thoughts turned like the most precise gears, locking onto the crucial point at this moment, without surprise, the source of that whisper was the hooded figure lurking in the shadows, perhaps just a madman fancying himself a deity, but—she realized she might need that madman.
Although the risks were glaringly apparent.
But, even at its worst, it seemed preferable to her current plight; she thought it was death she feared, yet by comparison, this state of emotions completely subdued by magic seemed, in some ways, more unbearable than death—
Thus, her gaze once again flitted across the blue shackle on her wrist, and she resolved instantly.
She needed this wild card, even if it might consume her entirely.