Chapter 5: Shadows of Men
Mat returned to his dorm late in the evening, boots scuffed and coat covered in dust from another round of bizarre Nevermore classes. He had sparred in fencing, dodged a sentient carnivorous vine in botany, and been asked far too many questions in something called "Modern Ethics." It was enough to make a man long for the simplicity of Trollocs and gambling halls.
Ajax was out—probably charming a table full of gorgons with card tricks—so the room was quiet when Mat collapsed onto his bed. He yawned, pulled his hat low over his eyes, and mumbled to himself.
"Bloody school… might be weirder than the Blight."
Sleep hit him like a hammer, and the world around him went dark. But not peaceful.
Flames crackled in the darkness. Mat found himself standing barefoot on cold stone, the air heavy with the scent of blood and smoke. His surroundings shifted, hazy and surreal, like the flickering shadows of a half-remembered nightmare.
In the distance, tall spires pierced the black sky, and a cold wind swept through a battlefield strewn with bodies impaled on tall, gruesome stakes.
Mat grimaced. "Light… what in the flaming hells is this?"
Then, he saw him.
A tall, gaunt man with piercing eyes and a cruel mouth stood amidst the carnage. His armor was dark, battered, and his cloak billowed like a shroud. He looked over the field of death not with horror, but calm. A terrible, calculating calm.
"Vlad," Mat breathed. He knew it. He didn't know how, but he knew the man—Vlad the Impaler—and not from a book. He could feel the memories as if they were his own. He could feel the raw cruelty of the choices made, the bloody necessity of fear used as a tool. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with the cold detachment of a ruler forced into monstrous acts.
He watched Vlad order his men to raise more stakes. Women and children watched, their eyes hollow. One soldier hesitated. Vlad slit his throat with a dagger before he could blink.
Mat's hands clenched. "I wouldn't have done it that way…" he muttered—yet a sliver of him understood it. Not agreed with it, but understood the why. Terror as a weapon. A lesson to enemies. The cruelty of survival.
And then the vision shifted.
Now he stood in a dimly lit study, the scent of parchment and ink overpowering. The air was thick with tobacco and whispers. Mat stood beside another man—short, wiry, with sharp eyes that darted between quill and scroll. The man spoke to no one but himself, muttering under his breath as he scribbled.
"He must be feared… not hated. Respected… no, obeyed. Power must be taken, not granted."
"Machiavelli," Mat said, and the name tasted bitter and brilliant at once.
He watched the man write The Prince—not as a manipulative villain, but as a realist in a brutal world. Through his eyes, Mat saw courts ruled by knives behind smiles, kings who fed their brothers poison at feasts, and empires held together not by justice—but by control.
He felt the cold logic. The necessity of hard choices, of wearing a mask in public and being something else in private. The difference between what a ruler must appear to be, and what he must do when no one is watching.
"I've lived this," Mat whispered to himself, heart pounding. "Bloody ashes, I've been this. The masks, the lies, the sacrifices."
But it wasn't just a realization—it was an absorption. His head throbbed as memories flooded in—some his, others belonging to men who had shaped empires and slaughtered cities in the name of peace. He saw a line of faces stretching into darkness—some legendary, some infamous, all important.
He felt his soul stretch, pulled between worlds and identities. The foxhead medallion at his neck burned cold against his chest, and he clutched at it, as if it could anchor him.
"This isn't just about me anymore," Mat breathed. "This world… this place… it's trying to show me something."
Then the vision darkened again. Another shift. Another shadow.
He wasn't sure how long he had been in the void, only that the visions hadn't ended. Each one bled into the next: a battlefield where Napoleon surveyed troops, calm and brilliant. A smoky room where Churchill clutched a glass and whispered to a trembling general, "We must never surrender."
Each man's moment—their darkest, most defining—etched itself into Mat's soul. And always, they shared something:
Burden. Vision. Loneliness.
He awoke with a sharp gasp. The dorm room was silent. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting soft shadows over the floor. Mat sat up slowly, drenched in sweat. His heart hammered like a war drum.
His eyes darted to the corner of the room, half-expecting to see one of those men still standing there. But there was no one. Just his hat on the nightstand, and the comforting weight of the ashandarei resting nearby.
He leaned forward, head in his hands.
"Light," he whispered, voice hoarse. "What did I just see?"
The world of Wednesday Addams might have seemed strange before. But now… Mat had the creeping feeling that whatever had brought him here was bigger than him. Bigger than luck. Bigger than fate. Something old. Something intelligent. Something... waiting.
And now, it had his attention.
Morning sunlight streamed through the dorm window in golden slants, illuminating the motes of dust hanging in the still air. Mat Cauthon sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples as if he could scrub away the images that still lingered behind his eyes.
He hadn't slept since waking from the vision—if that's what it was. His mind had been crowded all night, teeming with lives and thoughts that weren't his... and yet somehow were. They whispered to him still, fragments of men long dead from this strange world: authors, thinkers, dreamers—each with a darkness all their own.
"Light," Mat muttered. "This is just like the bloody Aelfinn all over again."
Back in his own world, the Aelfinn—the snakelike creatures who offered answers in riddles—had stuffed his mind with memories and battle knowledge from ancient heroes long gone. That had been strange enough. But this? This was something else. These weren't warriors or kings from the Age of Legends. These were men from this world, and he knew their lives like he'd lived them.
He'd stood in the cramped study of Edgar Allan Poe, candlelight flickering on cracked walls as the man scribbled verses between gulps of absinthe. He felt the weight of loss, the obsessions, the hollow ache of grief and brilliance intermingling. A mind teetering on the edge, haunted by shadows of death and beauty.
Then he'd sat beside Arthur Conan Doyle, watching him pen the words that birthed Sherlock Holmes. But behind the logical brilliance, Mat had sensed Doyle's growing disillusionment, the constant war between science and the mystical. The way he wanted to believe in something more… even if the world mocked him for it.
And then Byron—flaming, defiant, and doomed. Mat could still feel the echo of the stormy seas under his boots, the clamor of war in foreign lands, the glittering halls of scandal and poetry. There was something raw in Byron's fire. Romantic, dangerous, self-destructive. Familiar.
"Bloody ashes," Mat muttered again, staring at his hands like they might belong to someone else. "Am I going mad, or just becoming... more?"
These weren't just stories. These were lives. He could recite stanzas of Poe's poetry, dissect Doyle's detective logic, feel Byron's restlessness in his own legs. They weren't memories in the strictest sense—they weren't his—but they lived inside him now, much like the old memories from the Aelfinn. Only this time, they weren't from the Pattern he knew. They were from this world. This modern world.
He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. "What could cause this? The Pattern... maybe it's bleeding through here, too? Or... maybe something more sinister?"
Something about Nevermore—it wasn't just strange in the way of talking gargoyles and psychic teens. It felt like a place that flirted with deeper currents, currents that tugged at time and fate.
He glanced at his foxhead medallion, still cold against his chest. "You'd warn me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" he asked it wryly. Of course, the medallion offered no comfort.
But as his boots hit the wooden floor, he began to think: Could I use these memories?
Could he bluff better with Byron's wit? Solve mysteries with Doyle's insight? See into the darkness of others like Poe did—through prose or poetry or perception?
The very idea made him pause in the mirror, adjusting his coat with slow, thoughtful hands.
"Alright, Mat," he muttered to his reflection. "No more losing your bloody mind. Time to look sharp."
He threw on his hat, smirked at his slightly haunted reflection, and grabbed his ashandarei. With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped into the hall.
As he walked through the corridors toward class, the normal buzz of Nevermore students barely registered. He passed Enid, who gave him a wary look. Ajax gave him a friendly nod and offered a high five. Mat returned it but didn't linger. Even Xavier's glower went unnoticed.
He was trying too hard not to look like he was unraveling inside.
Every name called in roll, every footstep on the stone floors, every glance cast his way felt sharper now, clearer. He was aware of everything—as though Doyle's analytical mind was overlaying his own instincts, while Poe's intuition whispered possibilities in the back of his skull. Even Byron's melancholy sang softly at the edges of his thoughts.
It was exhilarating... and exhausting.
Just don't let Wednesday notice, he told himself.
But that was going to be tricky. She noticed everything. And if anyone could dig through a man's secrets with a single stare, it was Wednesday Addams.
He straightened his coat, fixed his grin into place, and strode toward his next class like nothing was wrong. Because if there was one thing he'd learned from all those men in his head, it was this:
The best mask is confidence. Even if you're crumbling underneath it.
Wednesday had always prided herself on her powers of observation. People were puzzles—messy, inconsistent, easily readable puzzles—but Mat Cauthon… he was more like a shifting maze. Charming and reckless on the outside, but she knew better. There were cracks in the mask he wore. Little tells that most would miss: the way he paused longer than usual after hearing a word, or how his gaze flickered toward corners of the room as if watching shadows that weren't there.
She noticed the difference in him that morning.
He was quieter during fencing drills—his jokes still there, but more calculated, more precise, as if each one was laced with something deeper than humor. During History of Outcasts, he'd made a comment about political power that sounded less like Mat and more like Machiavelli with a gambler's drawl. And when they passed the campus pond, he'd offhandedly quoted a line of poetry—dark, romantic, lyrical. Byron.
So, of course, she confronted him.
It was just outside the library, the air cool and sharp, trees whispering secrets above them.
"You've changed," she said simply, turning to him mid-step.
Mat raised a brow, trying to play casual, though he was already on edge. "That's a dramatic way to start a conversation, even for you."
"You're quoting obscure 19th-century poets. And not the happy ones."
"I'm broadening my horizons. Isn't that what school's for?"
Wednesday stepped into his space, eyes narrow. "What happened to you last night?"
Mat's smile twitched. "Dreamt I was being chased by a flock of ravens. Maybe they're fans."
She didn't blink. "Ravens are an omen of transformation."
"I'm familiar," he muttered, suddenly very aware of how close she was.
Wednesday tilted her head. "You've started speaking in riddles, and your remarks carry the weight of minds you don't own. But they sound like you now. That's the unsettling part."
Mat's stomach twisted. He didn't mean to let it show, but it was like being cornered by a sniffer hound who'd caught his scent. "Are you always this charming when you dissect people?"
She blinked. "Only when I'm interested."
The air between them shifted. Mat opened his mouth to respond, to deflect with one of his usual lines—but nothing came. He couldn't lie to her. Not well. And certainly not convincingly.
So instead, he panicked.
"I need to… uh… check on Ajax," he blurted, and turned on his heel.
Then he ran.
The courtyard burst into laughter as students watched Mat Cauthon—Nevermore's newest anomaly, self-proclaimed Prince of Ravens—flee from a girl who hadn't even moved.
Wednesday just stood there, expression unreadable, as snickers spread like wildfire.
"There she goes again," someone said. "Wednesday Addams—chasing off men since forever."
"Another one down," a siren chuckled. "That's a new record."
Wednesday felt... something. Not shame. Not guilt. But something hot and tight in her chest that wasn't anger either. Mat was different. She had been careful. She hadn't meant to push.
She turned away slowly, ignoring the stares. Her eyes lingered on the path Mat had taken.
But Mat wasn't gone. Not really.
As he sprinted through the breezeway, his heart thudding, he heard the laughter. Heard the comments. And they hit him like a punch to the gut—not because they were mocking him, but because they were mocking her.
"Light," he cursed under his breath, skidding to a halt. "Bloody fool."
He turned around, running back the way he came, dodging a gorgon with a stack of books and a startled vampire who hissed at him for nearly colliding.
Wednesday was still standing in the courtyard, eyes half-lidded as she pretended not to hear the whispers. When she looked up and saw Mat charging toward her, something between confusion and exasperation crossed her face.
He didn't stop.
In one smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms—bridal style—with a cocky grin and an unrepentant gleam in his eye.
Wednesday blinked. "What in the name of Poe are you doing?"
Mat winked at the stunned students. "I'm rescuing my princess. She's terrifying and obsessed with death, but Light help me, she's mine."
Gasps. Laughter. Open mouths.
Wednesday, to her horror, felt a warmth creep up her neck. "Put me down."
"Not yet," he said, still striding across the courtyard like a man possessed. "You're not walking away from this crowd like you chased me off. I've got a reputation, you know. Handsome rogue, master of dice, romantic fool. Can't let the legend die."
"You're humiliating yourself."
"Oh, I passed that mile marker ages ago," Mat said with a wide grin. "But what's a little humiliation for a friend?"
That made her pause. The word struck a note somewhere she didn't know existed. Friend.
"Everyone's staring," she said.
"Let them," Mat replied, eyes forward. "You've got enough rumors. They don't get to write the next one without us."
For a moment, Wednesday didn't know what to do with herself. She wasn't used to people carrying her—physically or otherwise. But Mat? Mat did. Without fear. Without asking permission. And instead of feeling infuriated… she felt oddly safe.
That was terrifying.
And—somehow—comforting.
By the time Mat reached the far side of the courtyard, the snickering had turned to cheers. Even Enid—watching from a nearby window—clapped a hand over her mouth in gleeful horror.
Mat finally set Wednesday down, gently. She adjusted her sleeves with the same cool detachment as always, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied. "But I wanted to."
Wednesday hesitated. Then gave him the smallest of nods.
"You're an idiot."
Mat grinned. "That's part of the charm."
And for once, Wednesday didn't disagree.
The courtyard hadn't quieted since Mat's impromptu rescue of Wednesday Addams. If anything, the moment had become a gravitational force, pulling every student's attention into its orbit. Even as Mat and Wednesday disappeared down a stone path, whispers burst to life like fireworks behind them—rapid, bright, and impossible to ignore.
The students of Nevermore were no strangers to drama. But this? This was spectacle.
Xavier leaned against the stone archway, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He hadn't moved since Mat had swept Wednesday into his arms like some hero from a cheap fantasy novel.
He wanted to scream. Or break something. Or maybe both.
Wednesday had let him do it. That was what ate at him the most. No glare, no knives, no protest—she'd just gone along with it.
He muttered under his breath, jaw tight. "He's not even from here. He's just—just some guy who thinks he's clever because he beat me once."
"I heard that," said a voice nearby, but Xavier didn't even look.
His eyes stayed fixed on the place they'd gone, like he could drag Wednesday back with sheer will. She was supposed to be his mystery to unravel. Not some world-hopping gambler's.
Bianca folded her arms, watching the display from the top of the stairs with a bemused sneer.
"That was so unnecessary," she said to no one in particular. "I mean, really—does he think she's a damsel in distress? Wednesday? She probably hated every second of that."
But even as she said it, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Annoyance. Not jealousy, no—Bianca didn't do jealousy. She did dominance. And right now, Mat was stealing the narrative. He was controlling the room without a drop of siren blood in his veins.
"That's not charm," she added with a huff. "That's recklessness dressed in bravado. Watch—he'll crash and burn before midterms."
Still, she couldn't quite stop replaying the moment in her head. And that irritated her even more.
Enid, standing beside Yoko near the flower beds, gripped the strap of her bag a little too tightly.
"I mean," she said, "that was... kind of cute. I guess."
Yoko raised a pierced brow. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Enid snapped, then immediately softened. "Sorry. It's just—Wednesday doesn't even let me braid her hair, and suddenly this guy gets to scoop her up like he's her undead prince?"
Yoko smirked. "You sound jealous."
"I am!" Enid blurted, then blinked.
She turned back to where Wednesday had disappeared, pouting. "Why didn't I ever think to carry her off like that?"
Ajax, lounging on a bench and lazily tossing pebbles at a can, chuckled to himself.
"That was awesome," he said to no one in particular. "Mat's got moves."
He nudged a gorgon boy beside him. "Did you see the look on Xavier's face? Like he swallowed a cactus."
The gorgon laughed. "Dude's got guts. I wouldn't touch Wednesday without signing a waiver first."
"Yeah," Ajax said, smirking, "but that's the thing about Mat. He doesn't care about the rules. Or the consequences."
He leaned back and sighed. "Kinda inspiring, really."
Back in the halls, the students were already building their own version of the moment.
"Did you see how she didn't stab him?"
"Maybe they're secretly together."
"No, no, she was stunned. Like, genuinely surprised. Which means she cares."
"He called her his princess! He's either brave, crazy, or both."
"I heard he's some kind of prince in his world. Like, actual royalty."
"More like prince of drama."
And above it all, the legend of Mat Cauthon grew.
A gambler, a warrior, a mystery. Now the guy who carried Wednesday Addams like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Back in her dorm, Wednesday stood silently by her window, watching the reflection of the trees move in the glass. Her arms were folded, and her thoughts were unusually loud.
She should have hated that. Being carried like that. Being put in the center of attention. Being turned into a romantic gesture.
And yet…
She didn't.
She should've pushed him away, or at least stabbed him in the thigh. But Mat had looked genuinely flustered by the teasing. Not because he cared what they thought—but because of how it reflected on her.
That wasn't arrogance. That was... protectiveness.
She touched her wrist lightly, as if still feeling where his arm had held her. Something warm, unsettling, and alien twisted in her stomach.
This wasn't the discomfort of being crowded or misunderstood.
This was something else.
And she had no idea what to do with it.
Mat was tweaking.
Not in the I-drank-too-much-tainted-wine way or the Trollocs-are-behind-me way. No—this was a full-on social panic, the kind of creeping dread that came after you picked a fight with fate, won, and then realized the audience had also recorded the whole thing in high definition with mental playback.
He'd just carried Wednesday Addams—Princess of the Morbid, Queen of Death Stares, the Human Embodiment of Sharp Objects—across the courtyard bridal style. In front of everyone.
And gotten away with it.
Barely.
He'd managed to drop her off at her dorm with a quick "Alright, see you in class, don't haunt me in my dreams," and then bolted before she could start asking how he suddenly sounded like her entire bookshelf had been absorbed into his soul.
Now he was weaving through the stone halls of Nevermore, practically sprinting past tapestries and lockers, muttering to himself.
"Stupid, bloody move, Mat. Carrying her? Really? You had to do the full romantic farce?" he hissed. "Might as well have thrown rose petals and sung a ballad."
"Hey lover boy!" someone called.
Mat flinched.
He turned the corner—right into the storm.
A group of vampire students, lounging near the staircase like they were shooting a perfume ad, all turned toward him with the synchronized precision of predators. One of them grinned, sharp teeth flashing.
"You planning the honeymoon yet?"
"Can we come to the wedding?" another said. "We'll bring the black lace and live rats!"
Mat waved them off, trying to push through. "Out of my way, bat brigade."
They howled with laughter.
"Seriously though," a siren girl chimed in, leaning over a railing, "you're Wednesday's type? I thought she only liked people with souls carved out of obsidian and parental trauma."
"You'll be dead by next week," another student said cheerfully. "She's going to eat you alive."
Mat groaned, dodging a smug gorgon who tried to give him a high five.
"Hey, just blink twice if you're under magical duress," the gorgon said, grinning. "We'll send help."
"More like blink once," Ajax's voice called from somewhere, followed by laughter. "Twice might be too optimistic."
Mat rounded another corner—only for more students to clap sarcastically.
"Oh look! It's Wednesday's knight in slightly tarnished armor!"
"Do you wear the eyepatch for style, or to match the emotional trauma she'll inflict?"
Mat snapped.
He stopped, adjusted his hat slowly, turned on one heel, and stood tall in the middle of the hall like a drama student at curtain call.
He smiled—slowly, dangerously—and in a tone so smooth it could've been carved from velvet, he spoke:
"Do not mistake my silence for surrender. I am simply choosing the most poetic way to eviscerate you."
The hall froze.
He stepped forward, gesturing vaguely toward the students. "You stand here, giggling like court jesters after overdosing on sugar and mediocrity, while I, the poor soul who dared lift a creature made of midnight and razor blades, must endure your yipping?"
They blinked.
"Oh," Mat added, "and if you think I'm the one in danger, ask yourselves who's more likely to survive—her favorite mystery, or the entire peanut gallery who thinks she's a joke."
That got a few stunned expressions. One vampire backed up into a column.
"And just so we're clear," Mat said, his voice going low, almost whisper-like—eerily calm, almost Poe-esque, too still, "if I disappear mysteriously? I will return. Possibly as a ghost. Possibly as something worse. And I will remember every one of you."
A wind blew through the hallway just then—perfectly timed, probably some drama club siren messing with air currents, but it added to the aura.
He didn't even wait for a response. He strutted off.
Students cleared the path like he was radioactive.
By the time Mat made it through the doors and into the woods surrounding Nevermore, he could breathe again.
The trees were tall and looming, their branches whispering secrets he didn't care to know. The air was cooler here, and the hush felt earned.
He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and finally, finally let out the breath he'd been holding since the moment Wednesday didn't stab him after being picked up.
"Light," he said to the trees. "What is this school?"
He leaned against a tree and chuckled to himself.
"Byron would've loved it here," he muttered, then frowned. "Which is not comforting."
Mat closed his eyes, the quiet finally seeping in around the Poe-fueled dread and the Vlad-fueled menace. He could hear Wednesday's voice in his head, asking pointed questions. He could hear the laughter, the taunts. But he'd shut them all up.
For now.
He looked up through the canopy and whispered to himself:
"Alright, world. You've thrown me into a madhouse full of monsters and geniuses, and now I've got the ghost memories of literary madmen in my head.
Fine.
Let's see what I can do with that."