Chapter 1: Commonplace Larceny

For larceny one must unlawfully make away
with personal property without any sort of permission
or legal right, changing the objects out from their proper
place and keeping them for yourself with no intention
to return it whatsoever.


After the shock had been worn away, both of John's parents seemed to sprang into action at once. Arguing and talking over each other to try and make their son see some sense. John tolerated the rant for a few seconds, but in the end he had to make his cause known, there would never be changing his mind away from this. Nothing had ever felt as right and natural.

Silencing them with the gesture of a hand and a helpful clear of the throat coming from somewhere to his right, the young prince took a step down from the tailor platform and approached his parents. "Every morning that I wake up and look at that lonely island across the sea, I think about it." He said, suddenly realising exactly how much time it had been since the idea had first been born inside his brain. "It's as if they have been abandoned." He explained, and got to look as an odd mixture of emotions passed through his parent's expressions. Somewhere between horrified and chagrined.

"The children of our sworn enemies?" King Ben questioned. His hands and eyes were starting to get that terrifying, yet powerful appearance they always got when his ire was awakened. "The same that killed, and cheated, and quite simply destroyed so many lives, and you want them living among us?"

"Your Majesty, if I may?" Asked his polite advisor before the young man could respond to his father's poorly disguised accusations. John nodded his permission, not quite knowing if the request had been directed at him or not. "We would start out with a few of them," He said, adopting his usual competent and aloof persona that made him so valuable in the Royal Council. "A small group of three of the most desperate cases, and once the test trial has succeeded and they have been adapted we would continue to bring in new and bigger groups." His efficiency and straightforwardness always did manage to calm John's nerves or apprehensions, he always felt more at ease when he knew there was some action to be taken. Stagnation was his true enemy.

"The ones that we deem to need our help the most," The blue-eyed, barely out of his teen cycles, concluded. A determined expression written all across his features, the clear stubborn mirror image of the more adult version in front of him.

"You can't." Said the oldest, but John was not giving up, no matter how much this was outside of the norm. "Dad, I've already chosen them." He interrupted, showing his word in this was final. Stretching out to his full height to make up for his position of total lack of authority when it came to his father.

"Oh, have you?" The King leaned back, as if to distance himself from the situation. However, the level-headed woman that was his mother —the Queen— stopped him before he could let his temper run rampant. "Dear," She said, in that special sweet yet stern tone mothers usually have. "I gave you a second chance," She reminded him, this made the King pause, clearly the whole 'cursed into a beast until he learned how to love' subject was a sore one with his parents, one that they only brought up in extremely last-resort situations. After the waters had gone back to normal, Queen Harriet queried his son on the identity of the young children's progenitors.

John smiled gratefully, and let his shoulders fall back into a relaxed state before continuing, "Graham Lestrade," He had expected the anxious reaction the choice was going to bring forth, yet that didn't make it any easier to watch. "The Adler Queen," He added and here he paused, knowing the next was going to be the heavy blow. Sighing, he raised his head and stood 'confidently' in the middle of the room. "And Violet Holmes," He finally delivered. "Her only accounted for son, that is." He added as an afterthought.

"Holmes?" His father's ire had returned, although now it was very much justified. "She was the most vile and cunning of all the villains." He insisted; and it was true, so very true that everyone else would also think him insane at first exposure, but turning to the window and watching the swirling of the magic trying to penetrate the dome and never quite being able to manage it, hardened his resolve.

"I know, dad. Just hear me out." He tried, but was at once interrupted by the King. "I wont hear of it, those wretched creatures are guilty of unspeakable crimes and the danger of letting them free to roam here is the exact reason why we banished them there in the first place!"

"But the children are innocent," John reminded him, still not used to standing up to his parents in that manner. The King and Queen had always been very nurturing and understanding along his upbringing, and yet this had always been the one topic in which they could never seem to agree. "Don't you think they do deserve an opportunity for a better life?" He asked. "One that is not weaved in violence?" By then, the slightly-scared tailor and the sensible advisor had left, and allowed the family to discuss and resolve the situation in the privacy the royal family warranted. Seeing as they were alone, the young blue-eyed boy tried again, this time much more uncertain. "Dad?"

King Ben took a moment to consider it, and he apparently could not deny the veracity of that fact, however much he disliked the idea. Grimacing, but with a defeated posture he assented. "I suppose the children are innocent." He declared, and it was as much as a concession as he had ever heard one. Having come to a reluctant agreement, the pair of monarchs straightened their backs and made to leave the room, but not before his mother took a step to fix up her son's suit and smile proudly at him for the way he had handled the situation. "Well done. No matter the outcome." She said, then grabbed his father by the arm with a 'Shall we?' and the both of them disappeared into the corridor; leaving the king-to-be alone with his musings once more.

After a few seconds to process the scene that had just developed and the rush of responsibility that had invaded him, he took again to looking out the window; this time the sight did not seemed quite as sad as it did that morning.


"Take cover!" Came the hoarse cry of a voice to his left. The exclamation sounded loud and true since it was the only sound that could be noticed for the silent stretch of a second, then everything seemed to unravel in the best of ways. The blast of light and sound originated at the explosion made his blood run faster, and the sensation was nothing short of ecstatic. A feeling only rivalled by his opium of choice when he could acquire it —it was not exactly easy to find, they didn't really send it from the shore— but this artificially induced detonation would have to do for now.

The young man running at his side almost collapsed to the ground, but he was not going to stop for him, he was not there to attend to the unfortunate; specially not when he was finally having some much desired fun. He continued racing through the ground, but his direction was slightly different than everybody else's, and by slightly I mean 'complete opposite'; he was running towards the flare, ready to make away with the protected goods from inside the vault they had just violently broken open. He skilfully jumped over the discarded crates covered in spray paint placed on the floor. A mob of imbecilic civilians was advancing away in chaos, disappearing into the various dark alleys and downtrodden sheds that occupied the vicinity of the scene. It was as if they didn't do something like this every week. He figured they should at least be used to it by now, but he had learnt very early in life that it is completely hopeless to try and expect an actual coherent thought from almost everyone around him.

He pushed his way through the crowd and swiftly arrived to pick up the stolen reward his clever scheme had reaped. Smirking, and casually putting some of it in the inside pocket of his dark and sharp coat, hiding them away just before his two associates arrived; figuring it was his undeniable right as sole designer of this machination. If it weren't for him, they wouldn't even have gotten as far as their front door steps.

Soon enough, a figure was seen approaching him. A slim and determined young woman, her olive emerald eyes twinkling and her plush lips smirked and snarled in equal amounts once she spotted him."You are not having all the fun without us again," She started, to which the other only rolled his eyes playfully and ran a pale hand through his purplish curls. "Are you, Sherlock?" She asked, the warning edge on her voice was poorly disguised by her friskiness. He deduced it was completely by design in place of chance, he knew she was aware of him often times taking an extra helping of anything they managed to steal.

"I'm afraid I don't know what could you possibly be taking about." He answered with an innocent face, just as the other person in question was arriving, panting from the exertion yet exporting a clearly satisfied grin.

"Nice!" The third member of their 'gang' —although the youngest would never be caught calling it as such— stopped in front of them and swiftly began to load coins and jewels into his carrying bag. Tall, a bit on the bulky side, with straight nose and strong jaw. Sherlock snickered and leaned back on the brick wall next to the vault they were ransacking, waiting for the other boy of their group to finish brutally taking his share, managing to knock half of it over in his haste.

"You know it's not going anywhere, right?" The other asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm; he took out a cigaret and lighted it up with the flaming wood of the vault's frame at his side. "It's not like any of this lot is going to try and stop us anymore." He chuckled as he admired the surrounding city still in uproar about the latest crime committed.

"Well, no." Lestrade admitted, but shrugged and continued his frantic movement, he supposed his father's —the former great foreign schemer of The Sand Kingdom— antique shop was not going to stock itself. After a moment, the girl, Irene, pushed him aside with surprising force and began piling her share and storing it in her overly large purse, equally as eager but much more gracefully. Sherlock knew it was completely impractical for him to be running around in rebellion all over The Isle without someone to do most of the dreadful tasks —no matter how brilliant he was— yet sometimes he wondered about the real reason why he kept them around if he really didn't need them. Sure, Lestrade was strong and tough, always up for 'roughing up' some fool who dared annoy them, and Irene was highly smart, not to mention a very good manipulator and a master in seduction; but he, he was something else.

He was not only the most intelligent person on the island —excepting, of course, a particular someone, but we'll get there— people around him had found out that he was only able to be described with one seven-letter word. This boy was trouble. Of the best sort, obviously, the kind that made even the other villains living on the isle shrink back from his ever-knowing eyes and sent himself on a spiral of endless enjoyment.

"All yours," The Woman said to him, drawing back and crossing her arms at him in contemplation. He side-eyed her and bent over to retrieve the rest of the winning's of the day, while Lestrade kicked what remained of his make-shift bomb aside.

"I'll never understand how you build these things." Lestrade commented. It wasn't as if it were the first time one of his creations got them the best of 'bargains' in whatever they pleased, but his two associates always failed to recognise how easy it really was to mix some things together, let them blow and make it seem like magic; —nonetheless of how real magic was another matter altogether— but since it was banned and impossible to conjure even for someone born with magical abilities in his veins like himself, then simple chemistry would have to suffice.

"Yes, well don't over-exert yourself trying. You'd fall over." He retorted, much to the cruel delight of Irene, to which the other crook just glared. Once they were finished, the three of them gathered their belongings and took to wandering the adjacent alleys, roaming through the smelly and most questionable part of the city as was their usual haunt. They had duties they were supposed to be carrying out, but neither of them particularly cared for authority. Sure, Auradon sent some brave recruits every moon-cycle to patrol The Isle and keep everything to the King's liking, but rules didn't really intimidate him. If anything, that stupid poster of King Ben hung around the trodden town advising you to 'do good' and warning you of his ever-extending authority just made him anxious to cause more chaos in favour of inconveniencing them, at the very least. Sure, he could do much better than that, but then again, it was only ten in the morning, and his day never properly started until he had ordered a bitter and tangy black coffee from one the lower-class criminal's brew and walked out without paying. Plus, he was already exhausted from that morning's activities, ending two relationships and exposing someone's darkest, most embarrassing secrets —without counting the heist— could be quite draining.

The street was crowded, everyone going about their business, not paying any mind to anyone but themselves. That was normal there, specially on busy days; except for the occasional arson and gang activity. Sherlock trailed his hands over the rusted wall, he ripped an Auradon poster off and balled it away with a menacing grin over his face; satisfied, he tossed his dying cigaret to a nearby bin, buttoned up his long, black, sharp-edged coat and continued his way. The two people shadowing him kept walking too, participating in the trail of light-hearted vandalism he left behind, almost bypassing a figure that snatched Sherlock's vision; a girl, two cycles his senior, and her intense stare full of hatred. It was always the same, every day since they had been kids; even if the genius was aware of what the reason probably was, —theirs being a relationship full of animosity since he could remember,— it never failed to make him look at her as he passed. There just was something about her which he couldn't quite place.

His routine musing was abruptly interrupted once he encountered the last person he really desired to see. Sherlock halted and pursed his lips in disgust and frustration, he had been having such a productive day. "What do you want, Magnussen?" He said spitefully, not having an ounce of patience for this second-class shark. Sure, he was a brilliant blackmailer, with friends on the other side, —not that his magic was relevant now— and technically his 'superior' in his personal chain of command, yet that did not mean he had to deal with his antics.

"The same thing as always, little Sherlock." He started condescendingly, always treating him like a helpless child. Standing there, in the middle of the street with his hands in his pockets and his dead eyes in full display. "But that can wait." He commented casually, as if that was ever going to work with him. Slowly, some of the people in the scene were starting to draw back.

"Give me one good reason not to unleash on you the deadly disease in my lab next time you come over to report your duties about the mafia." Sherlock casually threatened, very intent on carrying it out if needs must, he wasn't raised on the many ways to be destructive and vicious for nothing. However, Magnussen did not seem to find it particularly frightening. Perhaps it was the wrongful impression most middle-aged men had on the young and thriving, people like him always tended to underestimate the genius due to his age. But he was strategic and cunning, and if they wanted a fight they would most likely end up defeated; he had had the best teacher after all.

The man approached until he was standing right in front of the teen, and smiled. "What would Jim say," He began, as he reached out a frail finger and ran it softly against his cheek. "If I told him you were behaving like this towards his second in command?" The shark asked, adding his whole palm to the breach of personal space.

Sherlock shook off the digits and took a step back in repulsion. "He'll tell you to unhand me," He concluded. "He has no time for your tedious delusions." The jab was obvious and frankly not unprecedented, but he did feel a sick sense of satisfaction about the fact that Moriarty was on his side about this matter, and how unable to do anything else it left his opponent. Both of his companions closed in at his sides in defiance, and that was exactly when he remembered why he tolerated them most of the time. The were useful allies.

"Very well," The man relented, not seemingly fazed at the continued rejection. He adjusted his glasses and took a moment to scratch his blonde beard. "Moriarty requires your presence at the castle immediately." He declared, to which the younger man could only frown in confusion, that usually meant he was going to have to spend the afternoon doing some sort of special errand. Well, at least it would certainly occupy his intellect for an hour or two. "He said to bring your gang of punks."

That brought Sherlock a sense of curiosity, it was very rare when Jim displayed anything but normal disregard to Irene and Lestrade, just as he did with anyone else in the entire world. That definitely warranted some exploration. The boy paused, just because he knew Magnussen despised waiting around when he was desperate to go hide away in his cave and lick his wounds; and he so loved to annoy him. Taking all the time in the world and softly smiling, he relented. "Alright." He finally said.

He and his group had already turned their backs to walk away and take the longer way to the abandoned castle at the edge of the forest, when the man's voice was heard again. "Sherlock." He called, which made said teen turn around only to see him still standing there as an unmoving rod. "Yes?" The boy said when no further question came forward. Magnussen roamed his gaze all over his frame lewdly only to return to his face and smiled wickedly. "That's enough, you can retire."

The boy with the violet-coloured hair rolled his eyes in exasperation and gestured the others to keep going, he couldn't wait to get away from the scene and back home.


Said castle was quite a sad excuse of what it used to be. Where once it was all high ceilings, sharp edges and grim-looking furniture, —decoration so tasteful yet so very disturbing that would push anyone to desire leaving right away; elegant and horrifying: his mother's signature— now sometimes it felt as if it only remained standing by pure will. Of course, there were no actual means of maintaining a fortress of such proportions living in the congregation of the various states of poor slums that conformed the island; and that which was one grand and very impressive, came to be merely a second-hand fortress in a villain's last attempt at grabbing any power left.

For Sherlock, it was also known as his home.

He and the two of his other trouble-makers acquaintances made their way through the various empty rooms of the place. Past several torture chambers —which were now resolutely out of use, except for the resident's experiments— and all other rooms with weapons and coffins; just another of the stereotypical fairytale haunted castle. It may have worked on the past to frighten any old fool who could wander off and end up there by chance, and it could have been useful to maintain an air of rightful menace towards dubious or questioning subjects. Now, it was terribly old-fashioned and there were times when the young man hated the caricature of it all. From the half-life they were all living trapped in that dump, right up to the sleek figure standing at the middle of his sitting room.

"Moriarty." He greeted, inquisitive emotion betraying in his voice, even if he knew better than caving in to his fascination with life in front of him. He threw his day's winnings on the table and shook off the heavy coat from his shoulders as the others just waited around, confused beyond their minds on the reason why Queen Adler and the Great Schemer's —their respective parents— presence was required, everybody knew that the one currently on charge of the castle, and of the falling evil empire, was not very fond of visitors.

Sherlock stopped to look around, shifting his silver-coloured gaze to uncover any clues. Moriarty was not even moving a muscle, with shorter frame and slicked black hair, just staring at him as if he were trying to figure something out. "Again with the petty burglary, Sherlock?" He finally said, something alike disappointment painting his tone. "Aren't you bored of that already?" He queried, his brown gaze boring into the form of his younger apprentice, even if he was several cycles older than him, his deep brown eyes never seemed to change form the empty state they always occupied. Often times the genius found himself wondering what could there be if he prodded at the surface with the most tentative of touches. What darkness could he unravel just by attempting to look past Moriarty's collected facade.

"It was from the Wiggings family." Sherlock offered, smiling charmingly at the only person to whom he had somewhat of a responsibility to answer. Knowing the extent in which the criminal mastermind hated those wretched little underlings that dared to try and question his claim of power when the time came to find a suitable successor.

James smirked, clearly pleased in a much higher level than unsatisfied. "Well, that certainly makes the effort marginally better." Sherlock chuckled then, content with feeling that at least not everything he did will always fall on the short side in the eyes of the greatest villain ever known —after his mother, of course.

The older man slowly approached the table and inspected his acquisitions; however, after a few moments, he swept everything off the table dismissively, sat down on a crooked armchair and propped his feet on the table. "You could've just said you didn't want them." The teen commented, and the other scoffed at Sherlock's expression of disbelief, smiling in that sleazy way that only he knew how to pull off.

"It's the deeds, Sherlock." He started in that soothing lilting voice, to which the younger man and the other teens rolled their eyes. "That make the difference between villain wannabes like the Wiggings, and true masterminds like your mother." Sherlock hated this part, the bit where Moriarty would shamelessly use his dead parent to try and teach him a lesson, it didn't matter that James was the closest thing resembling a family that he had, he'd heard those stories a million times before. "When she was your age, she was already cursing entire realms."

"Remind me again how that ended up for her?" Sherlock asked ironically, with a smile forming and a mischievous glint in his eyes as Jim turned to glare at him.

"I'm just attempting to prevent you from becoming like all these other dull creatures on the island." The brunette gestured his four guests in example, action which only earned scoffs and looks of outrage. No one dared to do anything about it, though. The young menace that was Sherlock, wondered briefly what would it be like to one day be as intimidating as to silencing anyone he would ever encounter with his sole presence. Perturbing the kids his age —and a few older ones— was one thing, but complete dominance over anyone was another matter all together. One Moriarty would not be so quick to dismiss were he to acquire it.

This wandering of thought was cut short by someone else uttering a statement. "There are news," Queen Adler, who up until then had been silent as a tomb, commented much to the dismay of the other guests. Twirling her long dark blue hair in a sensuous manner, Jim was not particularly pleased that he had been robbed of a big reveal, but let it slide in order to scrutinise his apprentice's expression. "You three have been chosen to go to a different school this cycle." She explained. Then, disguised as a casual afterthought, but in reality it was just a pause for the dramatics, promptly added. "In Auradon."

"What!?" The trio of teens exclaimed in unison. Incredulity painted across their expressions; one of them —Greg— even took a step back in rejection. Sherlock's fists curled up inwards, knowing exactly where this business was headed. "No." He said in finality, refusing to play to the other's machinations. "I'm not going to some tedious boarding school filled to the brim with annoying morons and prissy pink princesses."

At his demand, his female companion raised a perfectly styled eyebrow in contemplation and smiled wickedly. "I could see the appeal in that." She commented, and the younger boy simply turned his head to glare at her in warning to stay out of the outrageous matter.

"Shut up, Irene." He said.

"Well, forget it." Lestrade chipped in, "I don't do 'uniforms'." The three of them glanced at each other in conspiracy, weary of deciding in going or staying together. Sherlock could easily read determination in them as if floating words were coming out of their bodies, escaping for everyone else to see —except only he seemed to be able to read such language, he always wondered if that was some sort of left-over magical ability passed down from his mother or if every other person he had ever met was just a moron; probably the latter— even if some of the other's tells suggested a very subtle excitement to see what was beyond the magical border, the curly-haired man knew they would not act on it. However, the young villain wanted no part on it; here, on the island laid what was real, any kingdom made of fantasies was just not tempting enough for him to bother, not after what had happened before.

"So, it's settled." He said, turning to watch his mentor in amusement. "Better luck the next time." A small wicked smirk appearing all over his face. No matter how much trouble it could mean to him, he had always found deep enjoyment in refusing anyone else's wishes; even if the consequences for rebuffing Moriarty were often times best avoided.

"Ugh, Sherlock," Moriarty said in disgust, as if the sole concept of him harbouring such an ordinary thought were the most embarrassing of happenstances. Standing up from his seat and slowly taking a place right in front of him. "As always, you're thinking small." He commented, smiling and tilting his head in faux innocence as was the criminal's trademark. He would find it cheesy if it weren't so very effective at being terrifying.

Sherlock concentrated then, his brain rapidly firing every possible outcome and reason why Jim would want him to go there, and the only verdict was; "The wand." He concluded.

"Wand?" Asked Lestrade, as the purple-haired rolled his eyes and sighed. Looking around the room to the other supposedly smart criminals with vacant looks on their faces. No wonder Moriarty —and his mother— had always been exasperated with them.

"Yes, Hudson's magic wand." Sherlock explained to his associates, his silvery, almost colourful eyes challenging them to at least try and think for a moment. "You want me to retrieve it." He addressed this to his evil mentor in affirmation.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Moriarty asked in delight, rounding up the teen in appreciation. "Not a lost cause after all." He amused and mockingly mumbled under his breath. "With the wand and Violet's sceptre I'll be able to bend both good and evil to my will." James said, fixing his suit and stuffing his hands on the inside of its pockets; there was something terribly ordinary about Moriarty that always fooled people who didn't know him, it was a very efficient and frankly a bit disturbing strategy, to hide one's face so effortlessly in order for people never to suspect you. Of course, since he had seized power of the island after his mother died he had been easier to recognise. Sherlock remembered the day James Moriarty rose to power as if it were the day prior. Maybe some details of the actual uprising against the villains and the first days of The War of Light were blurred, a lot of questions had never been answered, but there were some aspects about which he would never be able to forget. Perhaps a new 'case' wouldn't be the worst thing after all.

"What's in it for me?" He asked, question which made his acquaintances perk up and look interested. Everybody knew they will be following him along if he were to accept, and the promise of a reward was practically the only way you could entice a villain to do anything.

"Do you enjoy watching innocent people suffer?" Moriarty responded with rhetoric. Smiling that famous Cheshire Cat grin that could make weaker men cower in terror.

The teen scoffed and smiled slyly, "Doesn't everyone else?" He asked, and casually sat down sideways on Jim's previous seat. "How is that any different from terrorising people here?" Sherlock queried, although he already knew the absolute answer.

Moriarty loomed over the boy with the purple curls and suddenly his eyes flashed bright green: A strong power seized Sherlock and his kaleidoscope eyes settled to mirror the lime colour of his attacker. A soft voice swiftly floated into his head, delicate but still very menacing, it was the remnants of the dragon's spell —which James had taken for his own right before she passed away— it was the only sort of magic that worked on the island, and only to a certain degree.

In the end, there was nothing he could do but give up, even if the other couldn't really control his actions with it, it was a very effective tactic to make him lose his resolve a bit, to stop him from struggling too much. Great manipulation skills and mind control were naught compare to that, and having the criminal inside his head always made him even more dizzy. Needless to say, the boy hated every second each time his mentor chose to do that and would do almost anything to make it stop. "Fine, we'll do it." He relented.

"I win!" Moriarty squealed in delight, completely out of character of what anyone would normally expect from the most feared criminal on the land, but Jim had always enjoyed leaving people wrong-footed.

"Irene, come here." Her mother said, while she carefully touched up her blood red lipstick. "You just find yourself a handsome prince with a very big castle." She ordered the second her daughter sat down. Said teen looked highly loathing and revolted. Sherlock could not really understand how could her mother be so dense as to not see what was right in front of her, specially after she is widely known for being clever. He figured she just didn't care enough.

"And lots of mirrors." Irene answered, though whether her tone was ironic or sincere Sherlock could not discern. At his right Lestrade was not doing much better with his own father. He wondered —not for the first time— whether he was lucky or unfortunate for only having a highly unstable and clearly psychopathic maniac as a parent figure. He usually gave up quickly on futile musings like that.

"Greg is not going anywhere." The Great Schemer declared, smiling at Queen Adler and winking. She rolled her eyes as his child was mirroring the exact same expression, except his was ridden with disgust on the surface. "He needs to stock the shelves in my store." He explained.

Lestrade sighed but still brought forward all that he had stolen through the morning, giving it up for inspection by his greedy progenitor; Sherlock just slouched more in his seat and anxiously waited for them to be over with their tedious affairs so he could retire to his room and finish his experiment in the rate of deathly poisons.

Moriarty scrunched up his face in repugnance to their small minded activities, "What is wrong with all of you?" He asked. "People used to scream at the mere mention of our names, and here you are acting… ordinary." Jim finished, visibly on the brink of causing another chaos like last week. "For thirteen sun-cycles we've been robbed of our revenge from those stupid, little peasants!" His voice fluctuating in tones and intensity, conveying every frustration he had on the matter. "Wouldn't you just like to see them all burn?" Jim asked. Somehow delighted, as if already tasting the fun and misery he would inflict.

Irene's mother then got out a small piece of glass —or what remained of her magic mirror more like it— from her purse and gave it to her daughter; who accepted it in wonder. A mirror that let you know anything you could ever want and more; even if that tiny device would never work on The Isle, it would in Auradon, and that was just

conveniently wicked.

"Sherlock," Moriarty motioned him forward, extending to him a book which he had tried to steal and take a peak inside for sun-cycles, ever since he was a little child learning mischief. "All my life I've been looking for this opportunity, and you will help me achieve it." The Book of Spells felt rough in his hands, but so much heavier than he thought it would, it was in so many ways intriguing. The plum coloured leather was sturdy, and the golden dragon engraved on its front so foreign, yet so familiar that he found his finger tracing the detailed silhouette, "This is exactly why I took you in all those cycles ago." Jim said as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Consider all you have been doing up until now 'practice'. Now, it's your turn to experience how thrilling it is to be a villain in the real world out there." Jim smiled and looked straight at Sherlock. "By doing exactly as I tell you." He concluded.