I Just Realized How This "the Villain Is Just Misunderstood" Thing We Have Going On Is Heading Dangerously

I just realized how this "the villain is just misunderstood" thing we have going on is heading dangerously to "I condone fascists because they have a tragic backstory and are hot" and I'm getting more and more turned off every time I think about it

To Decadent Poets - Chapter 6

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

The man, the beast and the insect, at its shadow Live, away from hunger and fatigue: In its branches take shelter the ditties And the loves of the mockingbird. — Olavo Bilac, Old Trees

Although he was used to a comfortable life, Chris wasn’t prepared for Taigh Hill: that wasn’t any mansion, it was a manor. Just the entry hall could encapsulate his entire house with space to spare, and he didn’t even talk about the decoration.

If anyone told Chris a king had lived there, he wouldn’t hesitate to believe it. The stairs to the second and third floors, which began across the hall, formed the shape of a tree, splitting into branches to reach each side of the two floors up. In the middle of the first store, a huge tapestry that had a story sewn into it was laid on the wall above a fireplace.

The housekeeper, however, didn’t allow any of them to take in their initial surprise, walking towards the stairs as if the place was nothing at all. For her, who took care of the place every day and all day long, it might not be, but fuck, Chris thought while the three of them jogged side by side to keep up with the rigid woman while still trying to take in everything, wishing they had a thousand eyes just so they could see it all.

There was a huge chandelier hanging from the high ceiling of the entry hall and the sounds spread, sounded, echoed throughout the place, especially because Miss Turner couldn’t stop talking, the echoes heightening the annoying tone of her voice. Chris was an inch away from telling her off when the echoes faded away and they entered a closeted corridor.

“You mustn’t make much noise because Mister Elliott’s wife has regular migraines and, if you do make noise, you’ll go to bed without dinner,” said Miss Turner severely without turning, as if she was sure she’d be heard, it didn’t matter by who. Chris considered some old people really sounded like that, shrugging to his thoughts while exchanging an exasperated look with Oliver. The boy smirked a bit, sarcastic, just like Chris had seen a couple of times during their trip together. “Oh, and I was warned that Mister Elliott’s eldest, Miss Ellen, doesn’t want you going inside her saloon. I ask that you respect it.”

“She has a saloon?” Chris asked the only one of the three there who seemed akin to breaking a couple of rules. Of course, he was the only one who could question them: he was somewhat akin to family, after all.

“Yes, she has, Mister Evans,” said the housekeeper, turning a bit, her voice polite. “It was a request from Miss Ellen herself to her father and uncle she matured.”

Although Chris thought the idea of giving a saloon to a nineteen-year-old girl was ridiculous, he didn’t say anything, shrinking back to the horizontal line, which was formed by him, Oliver, and Noah Kurtz, not realizing his shoulder brushing the second’s for a moment.

When Noah seemed to shrink, however, Chris looked at him. The boy, however, didn’t look back, making it clear as day he had no interest in speaking with Chris. The boy, for once, just shrugged internally and stopped so as not to bum pinto Miss Turner. She, on the other hand, had stopped in front of the fourth door to the right in the corridor.

“Your room is here. Mister Elijah wanted to put you in separate rooms but Mister Elliott thought it’d be best if you were sleeping in the same room so you could socialize and not being stuck in your own worlds.”

The woman obviously respected the two men she was speaking about and that made Chris feel a little less apprehensive about the godfather he never met and his family. If their employees liked them, that was enough to say they were likable enough. The housekeeper let them pass by her and scan the room while she kept speaking:

“Dinner will be ready at six pm and I’ll come get you when the time has come for you to go downstair today. For now, I’d suggest you use your time correctly and unpack or go explore the garden before it’s dark. And don’t forget to be quiet around the library!”

“Why do we have to...” but Chris didn’t have the chance to make his question, once the housekeeper closed the door behind her as she left before he could speak. The red-haired boy frowned, then whistled. “Is it me, or she doesn’t seem to like us very much?”

He was left to laugh alone and, when he turned to know the reason why at least Oliver didn’t comment, he found the boy turned to the bed he’d chosen, the one nearest the window. Meanwhile, Noah put his bag on the bed nearest to the door, leaving Chris with the bed by the wall. Even weirded out by the silence, Chris resigned himself to unpacking just like Miss Turner had suggested.

The beds in the room he’d share with the Other two boys could accommodate him and the others, plus at least more nine people put side by side. Chris didn’t doubt they could sleep the three of them in the same one with space to spare. It seemed the bed of a king, just like everything about that manor seemed to reek of royalty. There were even curtains on the beds: they were golden, just like the sheets and the blankets.

Chris wanted to say something to break the ice he felt around the two boys behind him but, before he could think of something, Noah left the room leaving his suitcase on the bed without unpacking it or saying anything.

“Kinda rude,” Chris commented quietly, raising an eyebrow at Oliver, who was still in the same position, silent as a crypt. Weirded out by this behavior, Chris went to his friend, brushing his shoulder gently with his own. “Hey, is there a problem? You can talk to me if you want.”

“It’s nothing, it’s just…” Oliver said, no doubt trying to lie because it was obvious there was something wrong. The boy sighed mourningfully, and said: “I miss my dad.”

There was more about it Oliver wasn’t telling him but Chris didn’t pressure him for more information. He couldn’t forget that, as much as it didn’t seem like it, he had met the other boy just some hours ago and there were limits Chris didn’t really know whether he could cross or not.

Therefore, all he did was sigh while sitting in his bed and smiled at his joined hands and separated knees.

“I also miss my mom.” Chris scrunched his nose at the reminder of Maxwell but didn’t say anything out loud. Instead, Chris talked about Jane and how amazing she was. Oliver looked over at him for the moment Chris began to describe his mother, his blank eyes making him look more German than ever but the boy still took a seat by his side, listening silently: “My mom loves to paint. She’s great and has always dreamed of being a painter but she gave up this dream when she married my dad, considering my grandpa wanted her to stay home to take care of me. My dad… I’ve never seen him agreeing with my grandpa but he also doesn’t disagree with him. My mom has the prettiest, softest hair I’ve ever seen and she smells like rosemary.”

Chris closed his eyes to imagine Jeane by his side, smiling at him the way just a mother could do. Looking at him the same way she smiled when Chris was younger and his biggest worry was whether or not she had made ginger biscuits.

Oliver stayed quiet for a long time after that, allowing Chris to recover from the onslaught of feelings after he talked about Jeane. He gulped, swallowing down the tears.

“My mother’s name was Liora,” the blond boy said in a murmur, so low it seemed like a whisper, his eyes staring at something Chris couldn’t see. Then, hesitating, as if he feared Chris was going to start yelling at him or something, Oliver added: “She was taken by the Führer before we left Germany.”

Chris knew “Führer” was a word they used to refer to Hitler. So the magnitude of it all hit him like a punch, comprehension making his heart beat painfully, cutting his airways. He couldn’t help but look at Oliver with pity, although he knew that was certainly not the desired reaction. It was just that Chris couldn’t help it: it was like Oliver’s pain had spread to him, because, after all, wasn’t it his own as well in a certain way?

All of those crimes committed against the Jews, the black people, Romanis, different peoples… wasn’t it his pain as well? They were humans. They were people, they could’ve been people he passed by on his way to school, they could be his professor, his friend’s parents, and relatives, they could’ve been his relatives. It could’ve been him.

Chris saw the pain as his duty. He had to feel the pain for all of the families destroyed by Hitler and by the war that was happening. He had to feel pain because it was the least, he could do if it really mattered for him.

But Chris didn’t say any of that. He didn’t ramble about how concentration camps or did a monologue stating the obvious — all human beings should be respected. No, Oliver knew all of that, he didn’t need anyone to talk his ear off about it. He needed to be heard, or his privacy respected, whichever he preferred.

“Do you want to talk about her?” Chris asked then, as delicately as he could even though he could still feel his disgust for Hitler leaving his tongue heavy and sticky, making it hard to swallow.

In his nape, there was a shiver being born. Oliver kept silent for longer this time; his lips half-open in almost words.

“No,” he finally exhaled, getting more comfortable in Chris’ bed, his back straight. “I was just worried because it’s my first time away from my dad since they took her and I don’t want him to… spiral because of it again.”

The worry in Oliver’s tone was palpable and, for a moment, Chris felt a bit envious about his relationship with his dad. He wanted Max to care enough about him and Jeane to actually mourn if something happened to them. He wanted his father to care.

Admitting that even to himself was like a Punch to his stomach. Chris knew trying not to care would be useless someday but until then, making these mistakes wouldn’t be allowed. He shouldn’t have to beg to have his Father in his life, he shouldn’t have to beg for anyone’s love. Love was something to be freely given, selflessly and happily given. Love was something to be offered, not something to be stolen.

After all, that was the reason why Chris thought it was ridiculous when one of his friends said he’d stolen a girl’s heart. It was ridiculous because they really thought that trying and trying and trying the same way everytime would give them a different outcome. If a girl wasn’t interested in giving him a chance, Chris just moved on to the next girl to interest him: it wasn’t so hard to hear a no after you got used to it.

Anyhow, he was digressing, Chris realized when Oliver shook his hand in front of his face, catching his attention back.

“Did I daydream for a bit?” Chris asked, embarrassed, and Oliver chuckled.

“For quite some time, actually,” he just said.

“I’m sorry”, said Chris with a sigh, turning in the bed to look straight at his friend. “I didn’t know what to say and ended up thinking about my own dad.”

“It’s okay, I can’t expect people to know what to say to something like that.” Oliver smiled, clearly embarrassed and a bit worried. “What did you think of Miss Turner?”

“I think she looks like a Woman from the last century, but who knows? She could surprise us.” Chris answered and shrugged as he laid on the bed, supporting his head with his fingers crossed under it, looking at the ceiling.

“She seems a bit nicer than those women.” Oliver also shrugged but didn’t lay down: he preferred to stay seated on the soft mattress. “What about the other boy... Noah?”

“He’s... quiet.” Chris shrugged again. “I still don’t know what to think of him, actually. I didn’t have the time to get to know him.”

Oliver made no comments, nor did he disagree about anything in regards to Noah. The two boys stayed quiet for a while, the silence of people that had nothing to talk about. So, to break the ice, or maybe to get some alone time, Oliver got up and said:

“I should write to my dad and tell him we arrived and it all went well. I promised him I would.

“Hm, I need to write to my mom as well, although I didn’t promise anything,” Chris said, closing his eyes as the Journey began to take a toll on him. He could feel his body getting heavier and his mind slower. — I’ll just sleep for a bit. Wake me up in an hour, please.

He didn’t even hear Oliver’s agreement before he was out.

Chapter 7 - Coming Soon...

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Do you know what breaks my heart?

Knowing that Odysseus probably still feels so guilty he can barely breathe, he's just suppressing it and filling the void with Penelope.

That's why she's finally showing up more plainly in this second part because Odysseus needs to believe that something will be worth all the guilt and all the suffering and that something is Penelope.

That's why she sings that she "will take the suffering" from him, because that's his hope, that's what he needs to believe because otherwise, it was all in vain.

And you know what's even worse?

Even if he does reach Ithaca, and even if he does have his "happy ending" (which I have no idea if it'll happen because I never read The Odyssey but I know enough about Greek Mythology and tragedies that I don't think so), it'll not be happy.

It'll be so bittersweet it makes my heart ache in ways I can't even bear.

I imagine Odysseus will never be able to swim with Telemachus and Penelope again, even if it's just a river, because he'd not know to differentiate between siren Penelope and real Penelope then.

I imagine he will never be able to look at his sister the same knowing that he caused her husband's death and so will she.

I imagine he will have to face his other men, who will know (or so Odysseus will think) that he sacrificed several of them to be there again.

I imagine he will have to discover all over again how to be a father to teenager Telemachus who doesn't even remember what is like to have a father, let alone see Odysseus as one.

I imagine if he will ever sleep in peace again, fearing that the gods will find him there once and for all.

I'm not crying, you are!

Lfmao bold of you to assume that's not the main reason why I'd marry someone

I won't be settling for anything less than an Odysseus level of obsession from my future husband thank you very much

My Books!

Hey, guys! Welcome to my profile, here you'll find my books (which are partially available here on Tumblr).

My books are self-translated, so my English might fail me sometimes, so I'd thank you if you could spare some minutes to critique my work if you decide to read it (I hope you do!)

Besides that, just enjoy the ride, I hope you love my stories and my characters as much as I do <3

All Creatures on Earth - Summary

The series will follow Adra, a witch born in a world of demons who has to navigate this world to get revenge for her father's murder. A murder mystery filled with political intrigue and a bit of Dark Academia vibes.

To Decadent Poets - Summary

The series is a coming-of-age type of story and will follow Chris, Annie, Oliver, and Noah as they grow up together in the north of Scotland as World War II devastates the world. A historical fiction with some mystery, a lot of comfort vibes, and Light Academia aesthetics!

The Freak Show Series - Summary

The series is based on two independent books but both are focused on heroines leaving abusive relationships with their families and discovering a whole new world ahead of them (and falling in love, of course). Ah, and there is a circus of horrors (running away with the circus was never more appealing haha).

All Angels From Heaven Above - Chapter 2

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

Buy the whole book through this link!

The address Damian Kolasi gave her was public and known enough so no one would find it strange seeing them together. On the other hand, it was also dangerously close to her coven’s headquarters, where witches gathered every time they could, which could mean that, if she decided to go, she’d have to explain herself to some curious wizards and witches. 

All those thoughts swirled in Adra’s mind while she closed the store and walked through the cobblestone street without a hurry, positioning her keys between her fingers. She wasn’t especially worried that someone could try to attack her — she had her powers to defend herself — but it was always good to be alert.

As if in mockery of Adra’s lack of fear, a thick fog filled Agraés, making her steps a mystery that should reveal itself in each corner while the old and imposing buildings loomed before her like ancient giants. She liked the city, despite the constant gloomy weather and the silent streets, full of danger waiting for her in every block.

Damian Kolasi’s deal, vastly different from the path she was taking because of the posteriors letter she had received, was intriguing and mysterious enough to make her suspicious. Adra didn’t like to be in that position, mainly because the demon knew her curiosity would be louder than her caution. He knew Adra would meet him even before she made her decision and that was utterly annoying.

Even so, that was a unique opportunity. Lethe Academy for Demonic Arts — a name she’d rather change — was quite literally the best school in all Nikaés, teaching demons from all over the world for dozens, if not hundreds, of generations. 

It didn’t even have a foundation date because no one knew how old was the school. It had five different libraries for each main subject of teaching, plus one for recreation, more than fifty classrooms, and a faculty with the best of the best teachers: the Academy was the most wonderful and intriguing place Adra had ever seen in her life.

And there she was, on the edge of getting in, if only she could dare to be the first witch to do so. Even if it hurt, even if it was going to be difficult as hell, even if she had to crawl her way onwards, that would be her only chance to get in.

Deciding she’d think about it, Adra sighed and hurried, in haste to get to the Coven. 

She heard footsteps behind her and tensed, unable to avoid them, even knowing that whoever it was would probably go away once they noticed she was a witch. And indeed it didn’t take long for that to happen, letting her relax again.

The city where Adra had grown up, Agraés, was in the south of Níkaes and it boiled down to a set of old-structured buildings, almost all of them beige or grayish, narrow streets and silent alleys between buildings, with a central river called Thanatos, which divided the city in two. Quite often, that was the description of tourists and uninterested visitors whose final destination was the capital, Mávros.

But to the residents and the Academy’s students who were brave enough, Agraés had its own magic inside its ancient structure and its alleys that would only wake up at dawn. At the main avenues, like the one where Kia and Adra’s apartment and store were located, the nights were monotonous and quiet, like no living soul lived there, but one just had to walk a couple of blocks to see the first evidence that Agraés wasn’t like any other city.

Adra turned at the familiar alley three blocks up from her apartment and smiled when she saw the awnings of the little underground pubs with their golden round lights spread through their metallic structures. 

As she crossed the alley, Adra saw young demons — probably local children, as the Academy didn’t allow its younger students to go out of its walls — walking through the place, amazed as a young human man did magic tricks that in reality had no magic at all, but were impressive enough so that they could cheat and delight others.

It took some minutes more and several other alleys for Adra to finally reach the Coven. Unlike other passages, the place where wizards and witches gathered didn’t look especially cozy or inviting. With a simple used wooden door, the only sign that there was some kind of life inside the cold gray building was the soft light pouring through the crescent moon-shaped hole in the door, which led to the underground saloon of peeled-off walls and hard capable of conserving a corpse — something Adra had already witnessed happening there.

The letter she’d received — sent through the Shadows — had been adamant that her presence at the Coven that night was required, something that intrigued Adra. Therefore, she entered the underground building, climbing down quickly the few steps that led to the door.

As soon as Adra entered, every other witch — and the few wizards that existed in the city — looked at her, none of them happy to see her. Adra just smirked, sarcastic: she wasn’t exactly happy to be summoned to attend the meeting tonight. But the Coven did what its matron witch determined and, as a witch, Adra owed obedience to her. 

Not that she respected Eupraxia Skourleti, the matron witch of her coven, very often. Adra just knew which fights to choose. Most of the time, at least.

Some witches smiled at Adra, not for affection, but purely for politeness. They never tried to make any conversation, however. 

To most, their coven was a refuge from a world that wasn’t made for them and didn’t make any effort to understand them. A world that was dominated by demons that believed themselves to be superior to any other species and whose oppressed — the humans — were too bitter and suspicious of any demonic thing to embrace them, considering that witches were the offspring of demons with humans. So, to the witches, their coven was the family most of them didn’t have and a refuge from the cruelty all of them endured.

But Adra was different and all of them knew that. Some few people didn’t resent what she had, but most hated her for having something they could only dream of: parents who were in love with each other. Most witches were born because of a meaningless seduction of human women by demons who would abandon them without hesitation with a bastard child in their arms.

Or worse.

Adra’s parents’ union wasn’t usual — in fact, she could easily affirm she was the only legitimate daughter of a demon and a human in all Nikaés.

That should include the Nephilim, children of angels and humans, and the ouralasi, children of angels and demons: they were too few, considering the country didn’t allow the entry of angels into its territory.

Like the witches, however, they had a lot of power: while the witches could control the Darkness, the Nephilim had a powerful affinity with at least one of the natural elements, and the ouralasi had ways to transform the matter if needed.

“Adra,” the known voice called her from one of the corners of the room. The shadows of that dreary place, however full, carried the call for her alone to hear. 

The voice had the shy tone that Adra knew very well and she turned to Thalassa Stathi at the other side of the room, sustaining the relieved look of her friend and ex-girlfriend. 

Well, Adra thought while walking towards her, maybe she was a friend. The things between them were complicated since Thassie had broken up with her months ago, but the relief was undeniable, and the gratitude both of them to see a familiar face in the crowd.

Adra looked at Thalassa’s black skin, which shone under the soft, golden light of the saloon, making her a queen of gold and shadows while she leaned in the gray stone wall.

“I’m surprised you came,” said Thassie before Adra could think of something to start a small talk. “You hate all of this.”

Adra tried not to sigh when she heard the slight accusation underlying the casualty of her tone. It wasn’t her fault that the Coven wasn’t exactly welcoming.

“Oh, you know, I have to make an appearance from time to time so that they remember I exist,” she said trying to sound excited despite the insistent looks from those who couldn’t tolerate her cutting her back without remorse. Thalassa snorted. “Actually, Eupraxia called me here today. Do you have any idea of what’s going to happen?”

“Well, she called all of us, but she doesn’t seem happy to see you,” said Thalassa, pointing her head in the direction of the Coven’s matron witch. “I guess she thought you’d disobey her again.”

Fearless, Adra turned to stare at Eupraxia Skourleti. The witch, who had curly voluminous hair and emerald green eyes, was one of the oldest witches of the coven and she simply hated Adra with all her might. The feeling was surely mutual. Their motives, however, were always unknown by all, including the two of them.

But behind that obvious rivalry, Eupraxia was a talented witch, powerful and full of ambition, something that made her dangerous and admirable in the same measure. If she had said that something big would happen, it was probably true.

When their eyes met, the witch showed her teeth, deeply displeased with Adra’s presence at the Coven that night, which was ironic, considering that it was Eupraxia who had sent the letter that called her, to begin with.

The dim golden lights of the saloon flickered when Adra smiled at her, the shadows fighting to fill the place like they did when Adra was mad at Damian Kolasi just a couple of hours ago. This time, however, the anger came from Eupraxia to Adra, who became immediately alert to any possible attack. 

But Eupraxia could control herself with as much ease as it escaped her and the witch went back to her always sober expression to murmur what was probably an excuse to the older witches that stood around her and walked towards Adra and Thassie, who straightened up in her place, locking her hands behind her back in a sign of respect for the matron witch.

Adra didn’t bother to do the same.

“Hello, Mrs. Skourleti,” greeted Thassie with a nervous half smile, receiving a polite and professorial nod in exchange.

“Miss Stathi,” said Eupraxia in a murmur before turning to Adra, the emerald green in her irises shining with hatred when the girl raised her chin. “Miss Anoixi, it’s a surprise to see you here.”

Adra smiled with the displeasure she found in the matron’s voice, perfectly delighted with that.

“Well, it’s your letter's fault, ma’am,” said Adra, just to see her squirm with anger. “It sounded important to be here tonight.”

“Yes, well...” Eupraxia looked like she sucked the sourest lemon, but didn’t have the chance to answer, because one of her apprentices, a girl with an innocent complexion and reverent eyes at her tutor, whispered in her ear. “I hope you enjoy the night, ladies. It’s about to begin.”

With that mysterious declaration, Eupraxia slipped to the other side of the saloon, leaving Thassie and Adra alone again. Adra frowned, resisting the curious desire to follow the woman and discover what the hell was happening under all of that secrecy.

“You shouldn’t treat her like this, Adra,” said Thalassa when they were sure they couldn’t be overheard by the matron, frowning in frustration when her blue-ice eyes went back to Adra. “It’ll come a day when you’ll need her and, with this kind of behavior, she’ll deny you.”

“She’s the adult here,” Adra retorted, looking at the place where Eupraxia had gone. “I’m eighteen, and she’s the one who should overlook my bad behavior.”

“And this was one of the reasons why I broke up with you.”

Thalassa took a deep breath, annoyed, and Adra felt a pang of guilt. She knew that she was a hard person to deal with, but that didn’t take away the merit of her point.

“It doesn’t matter,” Adra decided quickly, brushing off the subject by pressing Thalassa’s arm to catch the girl’s attention. “I need to tell you something.”

And just like that, with a preoccupied nod from Thassie, she told her about what had happened at the store that afternoon: Damian Kolasi, his proposal, and the meeting next week. At Adra’s every word, the girl looked even more preoccupied.

“You aren’t really thinking of going, are you?” she asked immediately when Adra finished and widened her eyes when she saw her hesitating. “Adra!”

“Shh,” Adra hissed, recoiling while the looks turned to them again. Both of them got silent for a couple of seconds. “And yes, I’m thinking of going. It’s a unique chance, Thassie. I could be the first witch to study at Lethe’s. The chances I could have...”

“Of getting yourself killed?” Thassie filled in sharply. “Adra, of all the crazy, dangerous things you did in your life, to think of believing that demon...”

But she never got to finish what she had to say, because powerful knocks sounded throughout the saloon, making all of them turn to the frail wooden door which looked ready to give in. Eupraxia appeared to shine while bouncing towards the door and opening it, allowing a big group of demons dressed in graffiti black to enter the saloon, as disciplined as an army.

The first reaction was a complete stupor of shock and incredulity, which spread through all of them like storm clouds. The Royal Guard of Agraés was there, in a weekly meeting of witches at the saloon of a decrepit building that was falling apart.

“My brothers and sisters,” Eupraxia’s voice sounded louder. Adra perceived she was using the darkness to spread her voice to all corners of the room. “Don’t be disturbed by our current company. The Royal Guard is here because we have something to do.”

Tempers flared — as was to be expected — while the witches looked around with suspicion. None of them trusted the Royal Guard at all. Authorities were full of self-importance and thought they could do anything and not be held accountable, especially when it came to witches.

The worst thing about, it was that they were right: they could easily escape from any harm done to any of them.

Adra frowned when the Guard’s lead detective entered at last, his black hair shining in the soft lighting and his lips pressed tight together in dissatisfaction. She looked away, however, when his eyes scanned the room, analyzing it with his violet irises.

Whatever it was the motive of the Royal Guard’s officers at the Coven at that moment, Adra knew that it was going to end badly: a lot of demons, with their sense of superiority, against the witches and wizard, who were feeling defensive, ready to strike like trapped animals and feeling like their safe harbor was being invaded. It was the perfect combination for chaos.

“Explain why you brought the Royal Guard, Eupraxia,” ordered Spiridon Louganis, one of the few wizards who were part of the coven for more years than Adra had spent on Earth, his guttural voice impossible to ignore. 

Eupraxia didn’t seem bothered by the veiled reprimand in Spiridon’s words and smiled at her brother.

“The Royal Guard of Agraés asked for our help in the mystery of Aglie Kalliergei’s death, the girl who died at Lethe Academy a couple of weeks ago.”

Eupraxia didn’t seem sorrowful for the death of a young woman while smiling to the group in front of her, all those wizards and witches surrounded by officers that would kill them all without thinking twice over it for the slightest sign — made up or real, it didn’t matter — of a threat in their part. None of them dared to breathe too heavily and Adra felt Thalassa squeezing her hand tightly enough to hurt.

“And what can we do?” asked Spiridon, hesitant, but directed his questions to the leading detective instead of Eupraxia. Adra and the others were even more careful and the climate around them was so tense that even that cold underground room was starting to feel stuffy.

“We want to know if the young woman was really murdered like our centers of investigation and criminalistics seem to indicate, or if it was an accident,” said the detective with an unaltered voice, looking the wizard in the eyes without any expression, be it disgust or respect. Damian Kolasi’s words echoed in Adra’s memories. A stab wound in the middle of her ribs. It couldn't be an accident, not if Damian was telling the truth. And, judging by the underlying tension on the detective’s shoulders, he was.

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