"Karma is like a rubber band. You can only stretch it so far before it comes back and smacks you in the face."

Unknown


Seven Years Later...

Universe (D)+01 | Plane of Mortal Men
Class-Five Restricted Planet: C-53/SR/R3-O2
Cirque des Mōr Rēowa | Alba Lowlands | 997 a.C.n.

The velvet canopy of the night stretched taut above a large pitched tent, its rich indigo hue punctuated by the faint twinkling of distant stars. There was a thrill of anticipation charging the air, one that did cause the iconic canvased fabric of Cirque des Mōr Rēowa to shimmer and undulate as if it were breathing; its entrance an archway of intertwined, gnarled vines that did sparkle with dewdrops of liquid starlight - and all but beckoning the crowd whose hushed whispers grew louder as the much awaited hour approached.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with enchantments and a sense of foreboding. Lanterns floated mid-air, casting their eerie, silver glow over the countless seats that circled the grand arena, while the scent of night-blooming flowers mingled with the tang of ozone; hinting at the potent yet invisible magick that crackled through the enclosed space.

It was a place where the ordinary and the extraordinary danced together in a delicate, hypnotic waltz; wherein the very boundaries between the living and the dead - of the Light and the Dark - were blurred. And at the very centre of the stage, where the lanterns glowed dimmest yet magick was most concentrated, stood a single witch; a vision of shadowy hues and whose costume was but a river of flowing, obsidian silk, embroidered with intricate patterns of silver that seemed to shift and move like ethereal shades.

Blood-red hair fell in waves around soft, pale features, and eyes, a piercing silver-grey, sparkled with a mischievous yet otherworldly glint. As the star performer of Cirque des Mōr Rēowa, this witch was known for her breathtaking illusions and spellbinding acts; ones that did dive into the depths of war, fate, and the very realm of the supernatural itself. And as the final chimes of the hour echoed through the air, her presence commanded the arena, her every movement deliberate and graceful; exuding an aura of mystery and power that captivated the audience.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that did always appear at the beginning of every performance; with a graceful flourish, did this Illusionist raise her wand; one that had been carved from the very heartwood of an elder tree, and was tipped with a single shard of obsidian stone. As she raised it high into the air, that very same blackened tip began to take on a soft, ethereal glow; pulsating with a light that mirrored the rhythm of some unseen heart - before it exploded into a blaze of brilliant, blue-black light as the witch began to weave her magick.

A melodic chant emanated from her lips, the incantation resonating through the tent. The ground beneath her feet began to hum with energy, the air thickening with the growing promise of magick, and a hush fell over the crowd as the slivers of obsidian stone were swiftly gathered; swirling like a dark mist that rose from the ground as they spiralled upwards, forming a towering cyclone of shadowed particles that shimmered under the unnatural silver lighting.

With a deft flick of her wrist, however, the Illusionist forced the cyclone to split into two smaller wisps that danced across the stage like ethereal spectres. The lanterns flickered, their luminescence struggling against the encroaching shadows these wisps created; the audience watching with a mix of fear and wonder as those same obsidian slivers coalesced into shapes both fascinating and terrifying.

From within the swirling darkness, figures began to emerge. Phantasmal beasts and warriors of unknown origins, two distinct yet shadowy armies whose eyes glowed with an eerie light and armour glinting like shards of black ice as they marched in perfect formation. Their silent steps resonated with the unspoken echoes of ancient war, moved with a grace and precision that spoke of the Illusionist's mastery; their every motion a testament to her control over the magicks being utilised.

The two armies moved with a silent yet deadly grace as they reenacted an ancient battle from a time long forgotten; movements synchronised as each clash of their weapons, claws, or talons resonated with a silent yet haunting melody. They moved in a seamless dance, their forms flickering between solid and insubstantial; a mesmerising display of illusion and reality intertwined - and the witch at centre stage controlled each and every move with delicate yet precise gestures, her wand having become naught more than an extension of her will as the two sides continued to charge and retreat; their battle a seemingly forever-conflicting display of life and death.

The crowd was spellbound, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The Illusionist's skills were unlike anything they had ever seen, a breathtaking blend of beauty and fear that had them in thrall. Her magick was dark, yes, but it was also wonderous - a reminder of the thin line between light and shadow.

Yet, and as they watched these two conjured armies wage their silent war, the crowd missed something insidious flicker in the periphery of the Illusionist's vision; a shadow's shadow, fleeting and almost imperceptible - and did lurk just beyond the reach of the lantern light.

The witch felt her heart skip a beat, though she forced herself to remain focused; directing the two obsidian armies into a graceful spiral that dissolved into a cascade of shimmering black petals.

Though, wherever these petals landed, and before the audience's stunned eyes, grass suddenly sprouted; spreading across the stage like a living carpet. Saplings were next to appear, growing before their very eyes until they were met with a vision of dark, primeval trees; trunks twisted and gnarled, branches reaching towards the tent's roof like skeletal fingers. The air grew chill, a mist sweeping through that carried the scent of pine and damp earth, and within the depths of this newly-grown forest, shadows began to dance and flicker; a creature of legend and myth emerging - a dragon whose scales shimmered like the deepest seas, yet eyes that were as blinding as the very sun.

The dragon reared back, spreading its massive wings and dousing the arena in darkness; the tips brushing against the edges of the tent. The audience gasped, some shrinking back in their seats while others leaned forwards; yet all were unable to tear their eyes away. The Illusionist moved with her creation, her wand directing its every motion, and the dragon obeyed, its movements graceful and powerful; a testament to the witch's absolute control.

It's maw suddenly opened, and screams could be heard from the crowd as a jet of blue-white flames erupted forth, the heat palpable even from the stands. The flames licked at the air, casting flickering shadows that danced around the arena like living silhouettes, before the Illusionist commanded the beast to perform a series of intricate manoeuvres, its sinuous body weaving through the air in a mesmerising dance of shadow and fire.

With a final gesture, she banished the dragon back to the shadows from whence it came. The dark forest dissolved into wisps of lingering mist, and the arena was once again filled with the soft, ethereal glow of the lanterns. The audience erupted into applause, their faces a mixture of relief and admiration, and the Illusionist bowed deeply, her silver-grey eyes meeting those of the spectators.

She could see the awe in their eyes, the respect, and knew that she had given them but a glimpse into the darker, more mysterious aspects of history - of magick. But beneath her calm veneer, a flicker of unease gnawed at the witch. She had sensed a disturbance in the air, a shadow lurking at the edges of her consciousness; that sinister and creeping sensation of being watched - and not by the adoring eyes of the audience.

No.

It was something the witch felt to be far, far more deadly.


As the next act began - a troupe of Necromancers who summoned ghostly shades to tell tales of fate and doom - the Illusionist slipped backstage, her heart still pounding against her ribs. She had always been able to sense when something was amiss, a gift that had served her well since joining the Cirque des Mōr Rēowa, and tonight, that sense was screaming at her.

Something was oh so wrong.

Steps were silent yet quick as the witch rushed down the twisting halls and seemingly never-ending corridors of the backstage area. The bustling chaos of performers and stagehands barely registered as she followed her instincts - instincts that did lead her to a secluded room near the very back of the nigh-endless tent.

Shadows seemed to thicken as the Illusionist stepped inside, the air turned chilled; carrying a faint, acrid scent that sent nerves on edge and a quick incantation to pass painted lips. A soft, ethereal light; one far different to what had been produced on stage naught minutes before, blossomed in the air before the redheaded witch, pushing back the darkness and allowing her pale gaze to scan the room; sharp eyes catching every detail.

Nothing seemed amiss or out of the ordinary.

Yet... that feeling of wrongness persisted; a growing, gnawing sense of unease that did crawl under the skin.

"Show yourself," she commanded softly, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her stomach. "I know you are there," was added as, for a moment, there was only a brief silence broken by the distant roar of the crowd reacting to another breathtaking feat.

Then, before her eyes, a figure materialised - stepped out of seemingly nowhere; magelight revealing a lean male with sharp features and emerald eyes that glowed with an inner fire.

"Eithne," was purred, the man's voice a smooth, dangerous drawl that sent shivers racing up the Illusionist's spine. And those green eyes raked over her form appraisingly, a raven eyebrow raising as, "You've grown into quite the witch since I last saw you."

Eithne's grip tightened on her wand, her own eyes narrowing as she demanded, "Who are you?" even as a flicker of recognition danced at the edge of her memory.

The man smiled, a cold, predatory grin that lifted the corner of his lips. "Ah, I see the years have dimmed your memory. No matter. You're other half knew me as Sylas."

...other half?

Wait-

Sylas?

A chill suddenly raced down Eithne's spine as the past - her own; long buried beneath layers of obscurity and the passage of time, surged to the surface with a force that nearly took her breath away. "Sylas Slytherin," she whispered, words barely audible. Yet the weight of the name reverberated through the air like a spell; one that was powered by both recognition and disdain.

That predatory smile only grew upon pale, thin lips; Sylas' green eyes now gleaming with a victorious and dangerous glint. "Ah, there it is," he chuckled, a low and menacing sound that caused the Illusionist to shiver. "And here I was beginning to think you had forgotten me entirely."

"What do you want, Sylas?" the witch demanded, her grip tightening on her wand until her knuckles had turned white. Fear and anger drove each word she spat, her voice only hardening as she added, "Why are you even here?"

Sylas, however, only took a step closer, his movements precise and almost predatory in nature. "I have come to see what you have become, my dear; to see if you still possess the power that did make you so irresistible all those years ago." Green eyes swept once more over Eithne's form appraisingly, "And it appears you have only grown more enchanting."

"Stay back," Eithne warned with a low growl at the same time her wand sparked with a protective enchantment; not wanting to take any chances. "I'm not the same naïve witch you knew."

"Indeed, you are not," Sylas agreed, his smile never wavering. "And you've certainly hidden yourself well. But you cannot hide from me. Not forever."

"You dare show yourself after all these years?" Silver-grey eyes flashed with outrage. "After what you did?!"

"I did only what was necessary, what I had to do, Eithne," the wizard calmly retorted.

"What you ha- Salazar trusted you!" the witch spat, her voice trembling with her barely controlled rage. "He loved you, and you- you betrayed him. You murdered your own uncle!"

"I did what I had to do," Sylas repeated, his voice turning cold; expression becoming naught but stone. "My dear uncle was unfit to lead, to-"

"You were jealous, Sylas," Eithne accused. "You killed him because you couldn't dare let him have what you wanted; because you thought you could just take his place."

"Of course I wanted what he had - anyone who knew the truth of who, of what you are, would. You are beauty and wrath incarnate; a painted, porcelain shell that does conceal such wonderous power and fury..." the wizard trailed off with a sigh, his features twisting into that of mock disappointment. "And here I thought that you would finally see sense now that the snake was long gone, that you would understand the power we could wield together."

The expression didn't last long upon his face, however; those emerald-green eyes narrowing as anger was reignited. "But you... you ran away like a coward; hid within this retched place, naught more than that of a shadow of your former glory. You could have been so much more, Eithne; so much better with me."

"I ran because I saw the monster you truly are!" the Illusionist spat furiously. Her heart pounded in her chest, fear chasing adrenaline through her veins, yet she stood her ground; wand steady in her hand despite the way the rest of her trembled with a mixture of fury and grief. "You think love is something to be possessed, to be taken by force. But love is earned, Sylas. And you will never earn mine. I had everything with Salazar, and you - you took that away from me, from the world!"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with accusation, and Sylas' smile faltered. Though it was just as quick to return, colder and far more sinister than before as he questioned with a deathly whisper, "Salazar was always the favourite, wasn't he? He thought his ideals, his purity of blood, even his love, would be enough to win over the Wizarding World. Be he was weak, unfit to bear the Slytherin name. He let his heart dictate his actions, especially when it came to you."

"Salazar Slytherin was stronger than you could ever hope to be."

The expression on Sylas' face cracked, darkening with Eithne's continued defiance, and his green eyes narrowed. "He had you, yes, and that made him believe he was invincible. But he was wrong, and now, he is gone; lost to history, and I am here. I have always loved you, Eithne."

"Love?" The witch could only laugh a bitter laugh - even as it felt as though her heart was breaking all over again. "You don't even know the meaning of the word. What you feel, Sylas, it is not love but possession - jealousy. There is no love within your heart, only of that which you desire. You killed your own uncle because you couldn't stand to see him happy - because You. Were. Jealous."

"Perhaps," Sylas conceded, his voice turning to something dangerously soft. "But you know you cannot resist me forever. The prophecy, our... destiny, it is not something you can run from, my dear."

Eithne felt her blood run cold.

The Prophecy...

She had almost forgotten those cryptic and life-changing words; the warning of two dragons, of fate and fire, forever intertwined.

"In shadows deep, where secrets do lie; two dragons' lay beneath one darkened sky."

"By blood and fire, their fates forever entwine; lovers lost, yet saved in Time."

Sylas recited the words as if reading her mind, his voice a chilling echo of the Seer who'd first spoken of it. "You know as well as I do, Eithne. Our destinies are tied. The world is on the brink of another great conflict, a war that will make the last seem like a mere skirmish. And you and I... we have our roles to play, don't we?"

"I won't help you," the witch hissed. "I will never stand by your side."

Green eyes flashed with anger, Sylas' demeanour darkening. "You won't have a choice," he stated, taking a deliberate step closer, his hand reaching out towards Eithne. "The prophecy will see to that. And when the time comes, you will either join me, or you will die."

However, and before he could reach her, a small, compact figure lunged from the shadows; a blur of fur and claws and scales - a sleek and deadly creature resembling a blend of serpent and ferret, yet whose body was an ethereal cerulean-blue - slammed into Sylas. Sharp claws and venomous fangs sunk into his arm at the same time its elongated body wrapped around the limb and squeezed.

"Arggh!" Sylas roared, swiping at the hybrid creature. "Get off me, you little beast," he snarled, finally managing to shake it free.

It hissed, dodging the wizard's follow-up kick with the agility of a serpent and the cunningness of a Mustelidae; growling and spitting fiercely as its eyes gleamed with a protective ire, circling Sylas as it prepared to strike again. And taking advantage of the situation, Eithne raised her wand, her voice steady as she incanted, "Ventus!"

A burst of magical wind exploded from her wand at the same time the Virret retreated, her spell hitting Sylas square in the chest and sending him crashing into the wall behind him. Dust and debris filled the air, the Illusionist forced to cover her mouth and nose, her eyes darting to her Familiar with no little concern before returning to Sylas as the wizard struggled back to his feet; his green eyes now ablaze with fury.

"You dare challenge me?" he spat, raising his own wand.

Eithne didn't even flinch at the accusation, her own wand steady in her hand, its tip aimed at Sylas' heart. "You left me no choice."

The room seemed to dim as the two faced off, shadows creeping along the walls and the air growing heavy with the weight of their impending conflict. And it was Sylas who was the first to strike, his wand whipping through the air as he shouted, "Confringo!"

The curse hurtled towards the Illusionist, who deflected it with a quick Protego. But the force of the two spells colliding sent her stumbling backwards, her shield cracking under the immense pressure.

"Impedimenta!" she was quick to retaliate with, however; hoping to slow Sylas down. But he countered it with a quick flick of his wand, sending the spell ricocheting harmlessly off to the side.

"Is that all you've got?" he taunted, voice dripping with contempt as he sent another spell hurtling towards not Eithne, but the ground in front of her. "Expulso!"

The floor exploded, the shockwaves knocking the redhead off her feet. She landed hard, her wand skittering out of reach, and before she could even think of scrambling for it, Sylas was upon her, his wand pressing harshly into her throat.

"Avada-"

"Draconifors Exumai!" the Illusionist shouted desperately, summoning a burst of pure magick from her outstretched hand. The spell was ancient, a powerful incantation meant to repel dragons, and in her moment of desperation, knowing what Sylas himself was, it acted as a force that sent them both flying.

Eithne's Familiar seized the opportunity, lunging at the wizard before he'd even hit the floor; claws and fangs flashing in the dim light. Sylas screamed in rage and pain, swiping at the creature, his wand movements becoming more erratic with every second that passed.

"Enough!" he finally roared, his voice echoing with a terrifying resonance as, with a vicious swipe, he sent the Virret crashing into a wall. The hybrid beast slumped to the ground, dazed but thankfully still breathing. "I am done playing games."

The Illusionist's heart clenched at the sight of her fallen Familiar, but she couldn't afford to be distracted - not when Sylas began to chant a dark, guttural language that sent the hairs on the back of her neck raising and her heartrate racing; the wizard's wand movements becoming intricate and precise as he called upon powers both illicit and deadly - a spell that did draw upon the most ancient and forbidden of magicks.

"Sylas, no!" she cried, pushing herself to her feet. "You don't know what you're doing!"

He ignored her, his focus fixated - unwavering. The ground beneath them began to tremble, a dark vortex of shadows and night forming at Sylas' feet; one that swirled with an ominous energy.

Eithne could feel the pull of Dark Magick, an unrelenting force that threatened to consume everything it touched. And desperate, she aimed her wand at the forming vortex.

"Lumos Solem Maxima!"

The spell, a beam of pure light, collided with the dark vortex, causing a violent backlash of magick. The air crackled with energy, and the room was filled with a blinding light. Yet, and before she could comprehend what was happening, the witch felt herself being suddenly pulled towards the vortex, her feet losing contact with the ground.

"No!"

Panic surged through the Illusionist. She could feel the vortex tugging at her, a force so powerful it seemed to drag at her very soul. And as she flailed, trying to find something to anchor herself, she saw her Familiar - the sleek and deadly Virret - being drawn toward the dark maw as well. Its eyes, usually filled with a fierce determination, now mirrored her own fears as it struggled against the relentless force.

"No- Nole, hold on!" she shouted, her voice barely audible over the roar of the vortex. With a surge of desperate strength, she raised her wand, aiming it at her Familiar; mind racing to find a spell that could save her beloved companion before, and with a deep breath, she focused all her remaining strength and shouted, "Incarcerous Fortis!"

The spell struck the Virret, and Eithne's heart ached as she saw the confusion in its eyes before it was suddenly flung backwards; magical ropes appearing to wrap securely around the beast and anchoring it to a post.

It hissed and spat, its eyes wide with panic, but it was safe-

At least for now, the Illusionist thought with no little relief; something of which was quickly replaced by a cold, grim acceptance as she felt herself falling even quicker, the vortex's pull becoming stronger as the backlash of her own magick propelled her toward it. She could feel her body being dragged closer to the swirling darkness, and knew that there would be no escape.

Eithne glanced at Sylas, who was also being dragged toward the swirling abyss, his expression a mix of triumph and fear as he reached out a hand toward her, as if to pull her in with him. But the force of the vortex was too powerful, both becoming consumed by the Dark Magick Sylas had unleashed.

Her heart and mind raced. She knew that there was no escape, no turning back. She had saved her Familiar, but there was nothing more she could do - and a strange calmness seemed to settle over her like a shroud; a resignation to her fate, perhaps?

Maybe, within this darkness, she would finally find peace.

Maybe she would even get to see her beloved Salazar again, in whatever did lay beyond.

"Whatever happens, happens," the witch whispered to herself, a tear slipping down her cheek as she thought of her beloved, her heart aching with the memory of his love and strength.

Perhaps, she mused, death was just another chance to see him again.

Or perhaps, maybe, in the end, this was her destiny.

Whatever it was, however, as the vortex's pull became irresistible, Eithne closed her eyes and let herself go - let herself fall. She felt the cold, the Dark Magick as it enveloped her; pulling her into the unknown. And the last thing she heard before the darkness consumed her was the mournful cry of her Familiar, a sound that echoed with a heartbreak she could not bear to acknowledge.

Sylas, too, was consumed by the Dark, his eyes wide and filled with madness. "We are destined, Eithne!" he shouted. "Together, we will-"

Though his words were suddenly cut off as the vortex surged, a powerful force pulling both of them into its depths, and the Illusionist's last sight was of Sylas still reaching out towards her, his features a mask of determination and madness.

And then, they were gone.


"In shadows deep, where secrets do lie; two dragons lay beneath one darkened sky."

"By blood and fire, their fates entwine; lovers lost, yet saved in Time."

"A Serpent King born with cunning sly, and a Firedrake whose kin once ruled the sky."

"But when a gentle giant dares to wake; when the skies do darken and the earth does shake,"

"Beware the touch, the tickling flame; for playful jest may end in pain."

"And a dragon's roar will mark the day, when lovers shall part, forced to re-find their way."

"One shall vanish, lost to lore; the other, Time's embrace, seen nevermore."

"Yet in the twilight hours of a moonlit night, the Serpent's heart will reignite."

"Aimed at peace, a war reborn; one where Titans clash with hearts forlorn,"

"A Second War, a prophecy made, from the ancient times where twins once played,"

"Reveals to save all from Noem's blight, two lost souls must reunite."

"For secrets kept, within history's immortal tome, the Heir of Slytherin is written to always return home."