Chapter 14
The moment her hand pressed against him, Abaddon rose.
Not slowly, not gently — he rose as if pulled upward by a force that shook the very bones of the house. His porcelain frame straightened to its full height, the ember-cracks in his skin flaring brighter, jagged light searing across him like molten fissures.
The floor trembled. Plaster quivered on the walls. Wallpaper rippled as though recoiling. Oil lamps rattled in their sconces, their flames guttering wildly.
The house groaned as if alive, as if it too felt the surge of his wrath and shuddered beneath it.
The children screamed. Fathers stumbled back, pulling their families with them, eyes wide with terror. Verena herself faltered, her hand slipping from Micah's shoulder as the weight of Abaddon's anger pressed down like a storm.
The house trembled as Abaddon rose, the fissures of light along his body flaring with molten brilliance. Wallpaper rippled, the lamps rattled violently, and the floor groaned as though the very timbers of the home recoiled from his presence.
Verena's hand slipped from Micah's shoulder, her fury faltering beneath the weight of something far greater than anger.
Abaddon stood tall, unflinching, his posture unshaken — as though he had always been the master of this room, and all others were trespassers within it. His voice was calm, even refined, carrying no raised edge. Yet each word landed with the weight of iron.
"Magistrate," he said, the title spoken like a reminder of her insignificance. "I allowed your insults. I endured your posturing. But you have made a grave misstep."
His black eyes glinted faintly, fixed not on her but on the boy at his side. "To raise your voice against him… to lay hand upon him…" His lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile — a smile without warmth, only promise. "That is trespass of the highest order."
The walls groaned, a crack splintering faintly along the plaster as though the house itself feared his next words.
"I would regret having to make an example of you," Abaddon continued, his tone low, steady, and absolute. "But do not doubt — the lesson would be final."
The silence that followed pressed down heavier than the tremor itself. The children whimpered. The parents dared not move. Verena stood rigid, wand trembling in her grip, every ounce of pride warring with the primal terror Abaddon's restraint inspired.
The parlor shuddered under the weight of his words. The air hung thick, suffocating, every flame flickering wildly as if the house itself strained to hold together.
Verena's lips trembled — not with fear, but with rage. Her wand snapped up, the tip glowing, her voice rising sharp and furious.
"You dare threaten me? I am Senior Magistrate of the Tribunal! Second only to the High Magistrate himself! You are filth, Abaddon, filth bound to serve. Know your place!"
The declaration cracked across the parlor like a whip, the words echoing too loud in the silence that followed.
Abaddon did not move. He did not blink. His porcelain frame remained steady, fissures of light glowing faintly like veins of molten gold. When he spoke, his voice was soft, even pleasant — and it was far worse than shouting.
"Your place… is borrowed authority," he said smoothly. "A title given, not earned. A rank that will wither the moment another is placed above you." His black eyes gleamed faintly, unblinking. "My place… was spoken by the Imperion herself. My name was given by her. And unlike you, Magistrate, I do not forget where my worth comes from."
The wallpaper split along one seam with a jagged tear, plaster dust sifting down as the house groaned, the timbers aching as though it could not bear his presence.
Abaddon smiled then — faint, elegant, terrible. "You may scream. You may posture. But in this house, before him… you are nothing more than noise."
Verena faltered, her wand trembling in her hand. Fury burned in her eyes still — but the fear beneath it was unmistakable. Her voice caught in her throat, swallowed by the silence pressing down from all sides. She lowered the wand a fraction, though her pride kept her lips clamped shut.
The family huddled tighter, breath shallow, as though none dared break the stillness.
And Abaddon — unbent, unshaken — stood in reverence beside the boy, as though he alone was the rightful axis of the room.
The silence pressed down heavy and absolute. Verena's wand still trembled faintly at her side, her fury caged by fear. The family huddled in their corner, children stifling sobs against their mothers' skirts.
But Abaddon no longer spared them so much as a thought.
He turned — not fully, never fully — toward Micah. His head inclined just enough to show attention, but his eyes, black and gleaming, remained lowered. To look upon his master directly would be presumption, and Abaddon knew his place.
"You called me forth," he said, his voice deep, resonant, and unfaltering, carrying no trace of mockery, only reverence. His taloned hands folded neatly before him, claws gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
"What," Abaddon asked softly, every syllable precise, "would my master wish of me?"
The words rolled through the parlor like a prayer — not demand, not plea, but solemn oath.
All eyes shifted to Micah, the weight of the moment collapsing onto his shoulders. A boy who knew nothing of this world, now staring at the creature his grandmother had left him — bound, reverent, waiting.
The parlor seemed to hold its breath. Abaddon's words lingered, heavy as iron, his head bowed just enough to honor without presuming, his black eyes never daring to rise to meet his master's gaze.
Micah swallowed hard. His palms were slick, his chest tight beneath the press of so many eyes. What do I say? What does he expect of me?
"I…" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. "I don't— I mean, I don't know what to…"
"Enough," Verena snapped, seizing the pause like prey. She stepped forward, her voice sharp, cutting across his uncertainty. "He knows nothing! You waste yourself on a boy ignorant of even the simplest truths of our world." Her hand swept toward Micah in a gesture of scorn. "If he cannot command you, then I will. By my authority—"
Abaddon straightened at once. Not to his full height — he had never lowered himself in the first place — but the shift was enough to still the air, to make the floor creak in warning. The fissures of light across his porcelain skin flared, the glow crawling like molten veins.
He did not look at Verena. He did not even acknowledge she had spoken. Instead, his head turned slightly toward Micah again, his posture composed, reverent, unshaken.
"My master," he said, his tone smooth, unwavering. "Only your voice reaches me. None other's. Say the word, and it shall be done."
The family shuddered as though the words themselves sealed something final. Verena froze mid-breath, her wand still raised but her throat closing on silence, her authority crushed without him sparing her a glance.
And Micah — trembling, uncertain, but now with all eyes fixed on him — felt the weight of it land squarely on his shoulders. He could speak, and this creature would obey. Or he could remain silent, and the silence would roar louder than thunder.
Micah shifted uncomfortably beneath the silence, his throat dry, his hands twitching at his sides. Everyone was staring — Verena, the family, and most of all the creature bowed in reverence before him. He forced himself to swallow, then turned, glancing at Verena with a helpless half-shrug.
"Umm… honestly," he said, his voice small and unsure, "she's the one who asked me to call you. I don't… I don't know what she wants. But maybe… could you help her? With whatever she needs?"
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to stop breathing. Verena's eyes widened, outrage sparking like flint — he dares—
But Abaddon moved first.
The Ashling rose smoothly, with that same measured grace, and for the first time his head turned fully toward Verena. His mirror-black eyes fixed on hers, unblinking, unflinching.
"What is it you require, Magistrate?" His voice was calm, elegant, but weighted like stone — a servant's words on the surface, yet carrying a subtle blade of irony beneath.
Verena's mouth went dry. To be addressed — directly, openly — by an Ashling was in itself a grave insult. To meet its gaze, to be spoken to as if she were a peer… She had half a mind to lash out, to put this wretch back in its place. But something in the air pressed against her skin, made her bones feel hollow.
She hesitated.
For the first time, she felt the sliver of fear. Not because of what he had done, but because of what he had not. His calm. His composure. His refusal to cower. If Radzimira had named this one, if he had stood beside her… then perhaps he was not like the rest of his kind. Perhaps he was something else entirely.
Verena drew herself upright, forcing her tone back into command though her voice carried a tremor.
"I need you to tell me," she said, each word deliberate, "if there are more wizards here with us… apart from your master and myself."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Abaddon's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, his porcelain features sharp in the lamplight. A low, velvety chuckle escaped him — not loud, but heavy with derision, as if her request were beneath him.
"Your stupidity knows no bounds," he murmured, the words smooth, almost indulgent.
Then his gaze shifted. Slowly, his black eyes turned toward the huddled family pressed against the far wall. He studied them for a long moment, and the amusement drained from his face. His smile vanished. The cracks along his porcelain skin dimmed as though something within him faltered.
He stepped forward, each movement deliberate, measured, his long fingers flexing as if restless with some unspoken tension. The lamplight caught the sheen of his sharpened nails as they curled and uncurled in rhythm, like a predator resisting instinct. His eyes narrowed, unblinking, fixed upon them.
"…Impossible," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. His voice, for the first time, carried not disdain but raw disbelief.
He drew closer still, every step heavy with tension. "But how? This cannot be."
The family clung to one another, trembling, eyes wide as the creature that had terrified them now stared as though they were the impossibility.
Verena's wand hand trembled at her side, her eyes darting between the bowed creature and the family pressed against the wall. She licked her lips, voice low at first, then sharp with insistence.
"Tell me," she demanded. "Tell me what you see."
Her words cracked the silence, but Abaddon gave no answer. His gaze did not waver from the huddled figures, his black eyes fixed, unblinking, on them as though the veil of flesh and bone had been stripped away.
Ordinary wizards could not see such things. Some, in rare moments of power or clarity, might glimpse a spark — a faint shimmer, a pulse of hidden light betraying the presence of magic. But the Velthari were different. They alone possessed the sight unclouded: the ability to see the living aura of magic as it truly was — a shifting, endless storm of colors, bending and folding around the soul like a second skin. To them, no wizard could hide, no carnal could pretend.
And so Abaddon stared.
His long fingers flexed slowly at his sides, his sharpened nails gleaming in the lamplight, curling and uncurling with a restless precision. His expression — so composed, so measured — faltered.
"…Impossible," he murmured again, his voice almost too soft to hear. His gaze tightened, black eyes narrowing with disbelief. "No… it cannot be."
Yet still he looked, unblinking, as though the sight before him defied every law he knew.
Micah shifted, his voice breaking the silence.
"What is it?" he asked softly. "Is there something… wrong with them?"
Verena's wand jerked upward, her voice cracking like a whip.
"Speak at once, Ashling! Speak!"
Abaddon did not look at her. His head angled ever so slightly toward Micah, eyes lowered in reverence as his words came forth. His voice was steady, cultured, but weighed heavy with disbelief.
"There is nothing wrong with them, my master," he said. "It is the opposite."
The family flinched, mothers clutching children tighter, fathers frozen in place.
Abaddon's hands folded with deliberate calm, though his long nails flexed faintly in tension.
"What I see… if it were spoken aloud, if it were known beyond these walls…" He paused, the cracks across his porcelain skin glowing faintly as though in warning. "…it would be branded heresy. Dangerous heresy. Enough to shatter the very foundation of the magical world."
Micah blinked, his mouth dry. "Then… what is it?"
Abaddon exhaled softly — not a sigh, but something closer to a ritual breath before confession. His voice lowered, rich and unwavering.
"They are not Carnals. Not entirely. They are becoming something else. Their flesh, their souls, are undergoing… transformation."
His gaze locked on the family, black and unyielding, though his tone was reverent, almost fearful.
"They stand at seventy-four percent completion. Still unfinished, still unstable. But make no mistake — they are being remade. They are becoming… Trueborns."
The room reeled.
Verena staggered back a half-step, her breath catching in her throat. "Impossible," she hissed. "Pure bloods are born — they are not made!"
Abaddon's lips curved in the faintest of mirthless smiles. "So we believed. So the world has always taught. Yet the auras do not lie. I see them as I see you. A Fleshblot's aura is weak, unstable — an accident of magic where no bloodline exists. A Crossborn's is thinner, muted — a half-formed echo of the Trueborn. But these…" His voice trembled ever so slightly. "These are different. Their auras burn brighter, more vibrant than any Crossborn. Not natural-born… but forged."
The family clung together in silence, terror mingled with awe, as though they themselves could feel the transformation crawling beneath their skin.
Abaddon drew back, his voice solemn.
"What you see before you is an abomination to the Tribunal, a blasphemy to every Trueborn doctrine. Carnals remade into Purebloods. If this truth escapes, it will not merely be condemned. It will tear your world apart."
The parlor fell silent, suffocating under the weight of Abaddon's words.
Micah stood frozen, his chest tight, unable to breathe. He looked at the family — their wide eyes, their pale faces, the way the children clung so hard to their parents it hurt. A shiver crawled down his spine. They're changing? Becoming… wizards? Purebloods?
The father's lips moved soundlessly, as though he wanted to speak but no sound would come. One of the mothers pressed her hand against her throat, her breath ragged, her eyes locked on Abaddon with terror. Even the youngest child whimpered, not understanding but feeling the truth sink into their bones.
The horror of it — and the strange awe — wrapped around them all.
Then Verena broke.
"Lies!" she hissed, the word bursting from her throat. Her wand snapped up, the tip burning with light. "You dare spit such heresy in my presence? Carnals cannot become Trueborns. They are meat, they are Fleshblots at best! They will never be anything else!"
Her voice cracked like a whip, shrill with fury and fear. "You twist your master's memory with blasphemy, creature! You dare bring shame upon her name by spewing this filth!"
Abaddon turned his head slightly — not enough to face her directly, but enough that his black eyes cut toward her in disdain. His voice was steady, cultured, dismissive.
"I do not lie, Magistrate. I cannot. My kind were made to see what yours cannot. And I tell you: they are no Fleshblots. They are not even Crossborn. They are… becoming Trueborns."
His long nails curled against his palm, the glow of his skin flickering faintly like embers in the dark.
"You may deny it. You may scream. But their auras do not bend to your will. I see what is hidden. And what I see… is impossible."
Verena's face went white, her fury clashing with a flicker of dread in her eyes. For all her bluster, for all her authority, something in Abaddon's voice made it impossible to dismiss him outright.
Micah swallowed, his voice trembling as he whispered, "Then… what happens when they reach a hundred percent?"
Micah's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Then… what happens when they reach a hundred percent?"
The question lingered in the parlor like a blade unsheathed. All eyes turned to Abaddon.
He did not answer at once. His porcelain frame was still, save for the faint curl of his long nails against his palm, gleaming in the lamplight. At last, his voice came — smooth, deep, and steady, the weight of centuries behind each syllable.
"When the change completes," Abaddon said, "they will no longer be Carnal. Nor Crossborn. Nor Fleshblot." His black eyes flickered, unblinking, toward the family as though they were already something other. "They will awaken as Trueborns in every sense. Wizards of unbroken bloodline — as if they had been born so from the beginning."
Gasps rippled through the family. A mother pulled her children closer, her knuckles white. The antonio's jaw worked soundlessly, terror and awe battling in his face.
Abaddon continued, his tone measured, reverent — and grim.
"Their bodies will remember no trace of Carnal weakness. Their auras will settle into vibrancy, pure and whole, indistinguishable from those who have claimed superiority for generations. They will walk the world as if they had always belonged to it."
He paused, his voice lowering further, heavy with inevitability.
"And should this truth be revealed — that Carnals can be forged into Trueborns — every foundation of power in your world will crack. Your hierarchies, your bloodlines, your Tribunal itself… all rendered meaningless. For purity will no longer be birthright."
The lamplight quivered as though the house itself recoiled from his words.
Abaddon's black eyes returned to Micah, lowering slightly in reverence. "That is why this cannot be spoken aloud, my master. Not to the Tribunal. Not to any. The moment it is known, your world will begin to burn."
Verena staggered back a step, her wand trembling at her side. Her face had gone ashen, her lips moving soundlessly before words finally broke free, brittle and uneven.
"But… how? It's… impossible. This is not…"
Her voice failed her. Her eyes jerked toward the family, and for the first time she truly saw them. Not as frightened Carnals huddled in fear, but as something else—something still human in shape, yet no longer merely human. Their faces were pale, their children clung to their skirts and sleeves, but beneath the terror was something unspoken, something that didn't belong.
They had always been human. Always. Yet now, before her, they were more.
Verena's throat tightened. Against her will, against her pride, the words slipped from her lips like a prayer she didn't mean to utter.
"What… are they?"
Silence fell. The air pressed close, thick with expectancy.
One of the twins stirred. He stepped forward from the cluster of his family, his small body stiff, his wide eyes unfocused as though staring at something far beyond the walls. The atmosphere thickened, thrumming with a pressure that was not magic as Verena knew it, but something older, heavier, divine.
His lips parted, and when he spoke his voice was layered — childlike and eternal, human and other, resonant with countless echoes.
"We are the living…"
The other twin rose unbidden, as if drawn by invisible strings. His steps were slow, deliberate, his gaze blank yet shining faintly with light. He joined his brother at the center of the room, and the echo fell into him as well.
"…and we do not bow."
The first twin's voice deepened, the layered echoes swelling.
"Born graceless, in dust and despair—"
The second answered, their voices weaving like twin strands of a single thread.
"Yet we stand; we rise."
Then together, their words fused into one chorus, terrible and beautiful, not spoken but declared, rattling the windows and cracking the plaster overhead.
"For her love remade us, and through her we shall endure eternal."
The pressure in the room crested. Lamps flickered wildly, wallpaper shimmered as though light bled through from another world, and the very floorboards groaned.
Verena's wand slipped lower, tears pricking her eyes though she didn't understand why. The family clung together, shivering between terror and awe.
Abaddon lowered his head — not in defeat, not in fear, but in reverence. For the first time since his summoning, the Ashling's composure bent beneath something greater than himself.
And Micah—Micah's chest hammered, his heart pounding like a drum, the twins' words echoing through his soul as if spoken for him alone.
The proclamation ended, but the echoes did not. They vibrated in the marrow, hung in the lamplight, lived in the very walls of the house. Silence followed — a silence so thick it felt alive, pressing down on every chest, daring any to break it.
The family huddled closer together, their eyes wide, their faces pale with dread and awe. Even the children did not cry. They stared at the twins as if they were no longer their brothers but strangers, touched by something too great, too terrible to name.
Verena's lips parted, but no sound came. Her wand hung useless at her side, her mind caught between denial and the creeping certainty that she was standing in the presence of something beyond her Tribunal's laws, beyond all wizardry.
Micah's heart raced, hammering against his ribs as though it might break free. He couldn't move. He couldn't look away. The words still burned inside him, seared there like scripture branded into his soul.
And then—finally—Abaddon spoke.
His voice was low, reverent, his black eyes lowered but steady, his hands folded with ritual composure.
"What you have witnessed…" he said slowly, "is no carnal trick. No accident of magic. This is legacy. This is her hand, her will, her love etched into flesh and soul."
His gaze flicked briefly to the twins, then returned to Micah without daring to meet his eyes directly. "My master Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov did not shape armies. She shaped eternity. And even in her absence… her touch remains."
He paused, his porcelain face grave, his nails curling faintly as though resisting the weight of the moment.
"They are not Fleshblots. They are not Crossborn. They are not even Trueborn in the sense you know it." His voice grew quieter, almost trembling. "They are something more. The Living — a bloodline born of her, not of the world."
The family shuddered, clinging to one another, the word Living sinking into their bones like both curse and blessing.
Abaddon's head bowed lower still, reverence in every movement. "My master… this is why the world must never know. For if it does—if even a whisper escapes—it will not simply burn. It will fall."
The silence that followed was absolute. No one breathed. No one moved. The divine pressure lingered still, faint but undeniable, as though the twins' words had opened a door that could never again be shut.
The silence broke not with words but with bodies.
The twins swayed, their small frames trembling under the weight of whatever force had spoken through them. Their eyes rolled back, the faint glow vanishing, and in perfect unison they crumpled.
Micah gasped. His body lurched forward, his hand outstretched. "Wait—!" But he was too far, his feet catching against the rug as panic jolted him toward them.
They would have struck the floor.
But Abaddon was already moving.
He did not step forward. He did not rush. Instead, his long, pale fingers unfolded with elegant precision, curling into an arcane gesture. Golden sparks bled from the seams in his porcelain skin, gathering at his fingertips like liquid fire.
He snapped.
The sound cracked through the air like thunder muffled in velvet. In an instant, the twins halted mid-fall, their bodies suspended just inches above the floor. Their limbs hung limp, but they did not strike the boards. Instead, they hovered, weightless, as though the air itself cradled them.
The golden sparks faded into a steady glow, threading around their forms in delicate strands, holding them aloft with perfect care.
Abaddon lowered his hand with ritual grace, every motion deliberate, his black eyes never daring to rise fully to his master's face. His voice came low and measured, rich with reverence, each word precise as law.
"My master need not stir. Their safety was never in question. I merely enacted what your will had already decided."
A faint curl touched his lips — not arrogance, but the serene satisfaction of a servant in perfect accord with his master. His long nails glinted faintly as his fingers folded once more into composure.
"My master's thoughts," he continued softly, "are my command. Even unspoken, they shape my hand."
Micah's own hand hung in the air, trembling, halfway between reaching and falling back. He stared at the floating twins, his chest tight, his throat dry. For a moment, he could not breathe.
The family gasped softly, their awe deepening, their fear tempered by the sight of the monstrous Ashling cradling their children with more care than any human hand
The twins hovered in silence, wrapped in golden strands of Abaddon's will.