It was quarter to midnight.
Ignoring the lateness of the hour, Cyrus Drake sat at his desk, grading the paperof yet another Conjurer-want-to-be. Not even the exitement of scratching a big, fat 'F' on the top of the paper with his luxury, sun-bird feather quill could distract him from his memorys and thoughts. ... A womans scream ringing through his ears ...
No, Cyrus thought. He took a deep breathe to try and help soothe his mind before swiftly turning the paper over and writing with blood red ink, 'Very poor work. The next paper you hand in that is as bad as this will be the one that makes me personally make sure that you are expelled. Cyrus breathed in a sigh of pleasure. Giving threats was a favorite pastime of his. Always had been and always would
Of course nothing could distract him for long. It was but a minute before the ghost of his memories came back to haunt him once again. ... A staff with a tiny dragon curled around the glass ball at the top...
... words, andgry words, unforgivable words...
... A flash of light, a horrible scream, a woman dead on the floor...
Cyrus pulled away from his flashblack, his chest heaving in and out. He would never fully recover from this memory; it didn't matter how hard he tried. Nevertheless he found a way to make it a little better. He has eased his conscious, hid the guilt, by blaming Death. For five years now, he had been blaming Death, so now he actually believed it was to blame.
Cyrus stood up abruptly, he knocked over the inkwell, spilling the blood-red ink all over the paper he had been grading. Oh well, there was so many marks on it that it wouldn't make a difference anyway.
A sinister smile crept across Cyrus s lips. One word filled his mind: revenge.
Death was the cause of it. Death was to blame. Then why was he sitting around here when he could be giving those horrible students what they deserved for what they did to him?
Never before had Cyrus felt this way. He had always been able to keep himself in check, to keep himself from ripping out each and every one of their throats. But all that changed when he arrived. The boy. The direct descendent of the creators. He had acted like a trigger, bringing back memories like they had never been brought back before.
A plan began to form in his mind, and a brilliant one at that. He d show Ambrose that he had been wrong to trust them. They would be at Cyrus s mercy, and soon enough, they would admit to everything.
He strode across the classroom, throwing a black cloak over his shoulders and picking up his wand. And, he realized, he knew exactly where he would go first.
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