Verena's breath hitched, her pulse hammering in her throat. There was no way for this—no way for what she could sense, what she could see, to be real. Her mind recoiled from it, refused it, even as her body trembled with the undeniable certainty.
The weight of her outburst lingered like smoke. The children sat huddled together, eyes wide, fear etched across their small faces. The fire crackled nervously in the hearth, its light trembling across the stone as though even flame itself had shrunk from her fury.
Verena's chest rose, then fell. Slowly, she drew in a steadying breath. Her hand lowered, wand slipping down to her side. She could not—would not—let them see her undone.
Composure, she reminded herself. Composure.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer, steadier, though a current still ran beneath it.
"Come closer, both of you," she said, her eyes fixed on the twins.
They froze, exchanging a wary glance. Their small shoulders pressed together, hesitant to move.
"I will not harm you," Verena added, her tone sharpening, then softening again, almost tender. "You have my word. Do not fear me."
She extended one hand, soft and dimpled, the fingers short but steady as they beckoned with a deliberate curl. The firelight caught the sheen of her skin and the faint glimmer of the ring on her finger. Her broad frame cast a deep shadow against the wall, but her eyes — sharp, dark, and unflinching — held the children fast.
The children clung to their parents, small faces buried in sleeves and skirts, eyes peeking out wide with fear. None dared step forward. Their silence pressed in on Verena like a suffocating fog, but she knew—she knew—there was no time to waste. What she had sensed before, what had nearly unraveled her composure, was not limited to the twins. No.
It was all of them.
Every single one.
Her breath hitched. No, no, no, no. This can't be.
Her grip tightened on the lamp, its faint glow trembling against the stone walls. She snapped her gaze to the shadows, voice slicing through the stillness.
"Sphinx, come out at once!"
The flame flickered but the lamp remained still, unmoved, as though mocking her. Verena's brow furrowed. Her pulse quickened.
"Wait," she hissed, glancing sharply around the room. "Yes… there must be one here." Her lips curled into command. "Ashling—show yourself."
The air remained empty. The silence deepened.
Her jaw clenched. Irritation bled into her voice, rising sharp and imperious.
"I am calling for you. Show yourself at once!"
Nothing.
Her fury cracked, raw and unrestrained. She stepped forward, her robes sweeping the floor as her wand hand trembled with indignation.
"How dare you—you insolent creature! You dare ignore a direct order from a wizard?" Her voice thundered, each word reverberating off stone. "You worm! Come out at once, don't ignore me!"
Still nothing.
Her chest heaved. Her cheeks flushed red with fury as she drew herself up to her full stature, voice booming now with all the authority of her station.
"I am Verena Drusilla Ainsworth—Senior Magistrate of the Tribunal of Magic! Second-in-command to the High Magistrate himself!"
Her words struck the chamber like a hammer blow. But the silence that followed was heavier still.
Then, like a lantern flaring to life, realization struck her. Verena's head snapped toward the boy — no, not Micah Petrillo. Mikhail Andrei Svyatokrov.
Her eyes widened, the truth settling over her like a stormcloud. Of course. Just as before, only he could command what her master had left behind.
"You," she whispered, the word carrying equal parts dread and awe. Then, louder, firm enough to rattle the room: "Your. Call forth your Ashling."
Micah blinked at her, confused, shoulders stiffening beneath the weight of every gaze fixed on him. "My… what?" His voice was small, uncertain.
Verena's jaw tightened. She searched his face, desperate for any flicker of recognition. But all she saw was blank bewilderment. The boy — Radzimira's chosen — was utterly ignorant. Oblivious to the world he had been born to inherit.
Frustration burned through her. "Repeat what I said!" she snapped, every syllable biting. "Say it. Ashling, show yourself!"
The boy flinched, then nodded hesitantly. "A… Ashling, show yourself."
The effect was immediate.
The air shifted, heavy as water pressing in from all sides. Wallpaper trembled against the parlor wall, its faded floral pattern distorting as if melting. Beneath it, plaster bulged and warped, bubbles forming like blisters under scalding heat.
A low hum, deep and resonant, thrummed through the floorboards, rattling the brass oil lamps on the mantle and making the children clutch their parents tighter.
The patterned wall buckled outward. The printed roses and curling vines twisted grotesquely, stretching into shapes that no longer belonged to any craftsman's hand. Light — sickly, greenish, and faintly glowing — traced jagged seams across the surface. The wallpaper peeled back like skin, the plaster beneath contorting, until it no longer resembled a wall at all but something alive, breathing, struggling to step free.
And then it did.
A figure tore itself from the distortion, tall — easily five foot eleven. Its frame was humanoid, but wrong, stretched, its proportions too long, too sharp. Porcelain-pale skin ran with glowing cracks, like embers in broken ceramic. Its eyes, smooth and black as mirrors, gleamed in the lamplight, catching every face in the room as though it saw not just flesh but souls.
The Ashling had come.
The figure stood fully now, tall and terrible, porcelain skin veined with ember-glow, his taloned fingers curling with elegance rather than threat. The parlor stilled into silence.
Children whimpered, muffled against their mothers' skirts. Fathers shifted forward instinctively, but their courage faltered as wallpaper sagged and pulsed behind the thing, as though the house itself recoiled from his presence.
The Ashling lifted his head. His mirror-black eyes swept across the family with calm precision, lingering on each only long enough to taste their fear. Then his gaze fell upon Micah — and held.
A change passed over him. The faint curl of his lips softened into something measured, almost gentle. He inclined his head, a gesture of respect that seemed at once alien and profound.
"…So," he said, his voice deep, smooth, cultured, carrying the weight of ages. "It is you. The one she chose."
The words did not cut, did not mock. They trembled instead with quiet reverence.
"You bear her mark, though you know it not," Abaddon continued, his tone hushed, as if speaking in the presence of something sacred. "I see her shadow upon you… and her light. Abaddon—that was the name she placed upon me. Not as insult, nor as chain, but as trust. And now that trust extends… to you."
Verena stiffened, her lips parting with outrage. "You will not—"
But Abaddon did not so much as glance at her. She was dust, noise, unworthy of notice. His gaze remained bound to Micah, every word meant for him alone.
"She was the Imperion. Perfection itself. To serve her was to serve destiny. And now…" His voice lowered further, nearly trembling. "To serve her heir is the last purpose I shall ever need."
Then, with a grace that defied his monstrous form, Abaddon sank into a bow — not of slavery, but of sacred devotion, his long fingers pressed against the floor, his head bowed low as though before an altar.
"To serve her was destiny. To serve her heir is my vow. Command me, and I am yours."
The family stared in stunned silence, too afraid to breathe. But Verena's face darkened, her cheeks burning with insult.
"How dare you!" Her voice cracked through the parlor like a lash. She stepped forward, wand snapping up in her hand. "You insolent creature, you dare turn your back on me? Do you forget what you are? An Ashling! Property! Barely more than carnal filth!"
Her words hung sharp in the air, trembling with fury. The children recoiled, mothers clutching them tighter. Even the fathers looked away, unsettled by her venom.
But Abaddon did not rise. He did not even glance in her direction. His bow remained fixed before Micah, his posture unwavering, his voice a low hymn of loyalty.
"I remember exactly what I am," he murmured, serene, reverent. "I am Abaddon, named by the Imperion herself. And this boy is her chosen. There is no voice above his."
The silence that followed was deafening. Verena's wand shook in her grip, her chest rising and falling with furious disbelief. For a moment, it seemed she might strike.
But still, Abaddon ignored her. To him, she was nothing.
Only Micah mattered.
Verena's lips curled as she snapped her wand down, her voice sharp and venomous.
"Pathetic thing. You dare bow as if you are more than a worm? You think that name absolves you? You are filth — carnal-born refuse, dressed in pale skin and cracks of fire. Do not delude yourself into believing you stand above the Tribunal. You are nothing. Nothing."
Abaddon did not stir. He did not blink. He remained bowed, his head inclined, his hand still offered toward Micah. Every barb slid past him as though her words were ash in the wind.
But then—
Verena turned, her fury snapping like a whip toward the boy. "And you—" She strode forward, her skirts brushing against the rug, her eyes blazing with contempt. "You stand there like a mute fool while this creature dares blaspheme? Do you understand nothing of what you are?"
Her voice rose, shrill and commanding, each word cutting at Micah like a lash. And then, as if to drive her authority into him, she reached out and seized his shoulder.
It was a mistake.