Outfit
@Dealla Prince @Aly Salinger @Winnie Harper @Vladimir Athanatos

"Winnie Harper?", Opeila had called out in complete shock, when Lady Virtanen had first mentioned the wedding invitation at the dinner table. "And Mathias Pride?" Her fork had hit the the plate with a loud clatter where it had slipped out of the Slytherin's hand. She could see groom and bride before her, how often had she seen them together at school. Both were in the year below hers. And marrying.

Opeila had heard all kinds of pureblood talk since she had moved in with her guardians, but suddenly, the reality of it hit her like a blow to the stomach. This was happening for real. And had she herself been less lucky, maybe she and Miles would also be in the middle of wedding preparations now. A new wave of appreciation for her guardians hit her at the thought.

And only a few days later, the family attended the wedding. Lord and Lady Virtanen, Lord Crane, who had invited them to stay at his residence in London, Lysander, Annika and Opeila. To most of the family this wasn't unheard of. It was unusual nowadays to marry off pureblood children at this age, but they didn't seem too bothered. Which meant Opeila's discomfort only stood out more, when they took their seats in the cathedral.

Opeila and Annika had gone dress shopping in Diagon Alley the day prior. Since her hair had turned white, the Slytherin liked wearing blue, and so her dress was a shimmering dark blue fabric and otherwise quite plain. She had put her hair half up and used a product to make it wavy.

The presence of certain faces didn't help it. There was the man who had saved her life when she threatened to freeze to death after the train heist in her second year. And what looked like the entire Athanatos clan.
Opeila let her eyes wander through the cathedral. The decorations certainly matched what she had seen of Winnie Harper in her time at Hogwarts.

Among the bridesmaids as well as the guests, Opeila found familiar faces, some of them her own classmates. If anyone of them made eye contact, Opeila would hold it for a few seconds, then look away. Does this feel as wrong to you as it does to me?

And then finally, Winnie walked in, beautiful in her wedding dress, but Opeila's gaze was fixed on her face. Took in every shift of expression, any sign of discomfort. Do you want this?
... Opeila could not help her if she didn't.
What eventually distracted her was the priests robes.

“In the dusk of the world, where breath first shivered, the thread was cast.”

“One soul for the light, one for the dark, one to be bound, one to break.”

... What a weird thing to sew into a priest's robe that did not at all help to lessen Opeila's discomfort. Neither did the man's expression.
Or his words.
Never again would Opeila attend an event with a member of the Athanatos family at its center and not listen to every single word. Especially not when they were as creepy as what the priest's.

"Let none of us truly forget what this truly is. This is the witnessing of a promise. A vow. And a vow is not a gentle thing. It is a contract, a binding, a sacrifice."

A light chill seemed to run down Opeila's body.

"And so dear guests, when you throw your grains of rice, crush those petals underfoot, smell that sweet scent of dying roses and raise your glasses, know this: something is being given up today."

Run.
The warning echoed through Opeila's mind, unspoken forever. She did not know Matt, Winnie seemed comfortable enough from what she had seen today, but the priest... It was too much. Opeila could not shake the feeling that what he said was meant more literally than most of the audience would be able to tell. Unable to resist, the Slytherin turned her head, scanned the silent crowd's reactions all the way to the very back, where-
She turned back around, not feeling like making eye contact with Vladimir Athanatos right now.

Opeila's fidgeting hadn't gone unnoticed. Warm fingers curled around hers, squeezing gently and when she looked up, Annika sent her a soft smile. Barely noticeable she nodded her head towards the priest and pulled a face that needed no words. What the hell is this?
Except Annika had no knowledge of anything concerning the Athanatos family. Maybe one day Opeila would tell her future sister in law some stories.
Forcing a smile, Opeila returned the squeeze. She did appreciate the thought.

The Slytherin didn't miss Winnie's hesitation, but in the end she said the words. Terrifying words and Opeila's gaze found the priest's robe again.
One soul for the light, one for the dark, one to be bound, one to break.

Come on Winnie. Call it off. Run. Her silent pleas remained unheard and unanswered. Mostly. Annika didn't miss the twitch of Opeila's hand in hers and held it tighter. Her gaze was fixed on the bridesmaids now, Dee and Aly. They had to find this weird too. They had to.

With no one to talk to and surrounded by her unbothered family, Opeila held on to Annika as if it was her making a sacrifice she could never come back from and not Winnie.

Sanctum Noctis Cathedral
London, UK

ℭassius Eden sat in silence as the family carriage approached the cathedral – the rhythmic sound of wheels over rough stone doing nothing to settle the tension inside. His mother hadn’t spoken since they left Barmishaw. She sat rigid, black gloved hands folded neatly in her lap and gaze fixed straight ahead. They had argued seemingly about everything that morning. His future. His education. His relationships. It was rare for them to argue but when they did, it was no small matter. The wedding would provide a convenient distraction although Cassius knew what his mother’s current demeanor meant. This argument was very much to be continued.

The Ravenclaw peered out the carriage window, unsettled by Sanctum Noctis’ grim majesty. Compared to the cold within the carriage, the dark stone was almost warm in comparison. He breathed a sigh of relief when they finally rolled to a stop and the coachman helped both mother and son disembark.

Livinia Eden was the very image of a pureblood matriarch. An elegant gown in black and blue-gray traced the lines of her slender figure, topped by a high collar and a mantle of dark fur. Her dark hair was coiled into an intricate arrangement of braids and knots, a style unmistakably reminiscent of ancient Rome’s patrician matrons.

As for Cassius, he wore a fitted blue-black dress robe, the cuffs and collar trimmed in silver thread. A golden brooch in the style of a Brigantian torc was fastened to his shoulder and held a cape in place. A bit of debonair style he would not have ever imagined wearing just a year or two prior. Practical, too, given it was his trusty invisibility cloak folded over so as not to activate and reveal its true nature.

His mother took his arm with her usual grace and the pair entered the church which was already filling up with attendees. The interior was grand. It was also pink.

Cassius did not know Winnie Harper well but he knew enough about her to know that she liked pink. Though both were Ravenclaws, he had really only interacted with her briefly during summer vacation when they, along with a handful of others, occupied the Circinus tent. Even then he did not have the chance to learn much about her other than learning she was in a relationship with Mathias Pride.

That was another person he was barely acquainted with, although their lone interaction left a positive impression on Cassius.

It was odd but not too odd that the pair, both a year younger than Cassius, were getting married. Such things were commonplace amongst purebloods, although more so in the past than the present. The only problem was Winnie wasn’t a pureblood. At least not that he was aware of.

Having taken their seats, Cassius scanned the audience for familiar faces. His gaze first found Thaddeus Athanatos. Though the young Ravenclaw could not read the old man’s expression, he found it difficult to believe the pureblood patriarch approved of the match. Perhaps Cassius would have the chance to make an introduction at the reception. However, there was another Athanatos he very much wished to speak to. Cassius scanned the audience yet again hoping to spot the mysterious leader of the Hogwarts Dark Wizard Society. Instead, his gaze landed on a much prettier visage. One Opeila Winters.

As always, Cassius thought his girlfriend radiant in whatever attire she chose to wear and today was no exception. Hoping to catch her attention, he allowed his gaze to linger with a warm smile. A smile that did not go unnoticed by Livinia who followed his gaze.

Her eyes lingered on Opeila for a moment, betraying nothing, before she faced forward once more.

@Opeila Winters @Vladimir Athanatos

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

Edit 9/7/2025: Because I can't read, I thought the cathedral and cloister were in the same location. They're not. I've adjusted the post below accordingly. It was a real shame they didn't sell any handgrenades at Sainsbury's. It would've solved a lot of problems. There was the collateral damage too of course, the detached limbs previously belonging to innocent bystanders that would paint the floor red, plus there was the not so insignificant chance of winding up dead himself, or in Azkaban at the very least. Death was probably preferable to that, actually. Finnegan pushed the thought aside and squinted at the brownstone flat that no one had bothered to demolish. Perhaps because it rather looked like it would collapse in on itself any day now, possibly even today with him in it. How would that work? he wondered. If the building hiding the magical site contained within it did crumble to dust, what would happen to the cathedral? He should have asked Eve. Maybe he didn't need a handgrenade but a bulldozer, though those were sadly hard to come by for most thirteen-year-olds. After three years of wand-waving, he could much better appreciate the level of magical skill involved in concealing such a large object. Nevermind all the muggle-repelling charms that had to be in place. He vaguely wondered if the magicians who had hidden the church had thought about muggle weaponry and put in protective spells against that too. Or perhaps those charms had been added more recently, a man of Thaddeus's calibre would not leave anything up to chance on a day like this. The closest thing to a handgrenade was an Erumpent Potion, but while he'd been drawn to reading about it (the illustrations of explosions had caught his eye), he lacked the skill to brew one. To say he just about got by with his potions lessons was probably more praise than he deserved, if you asked @Samuel Sauber. However, Finn would counter that the new potions teacher was such an unnerving presence that half his mistakes were really the Professor's fault, not his. But if Professor Sauber was like a too-large spider that you didn't want to find in your bed, then Thaddeus Athanatos was more like being put into a wrestling cage with a T-Rex. You could run away screaming from the spider, but with the T-Rex, your best bet was to stay very, very still and pray to God it didn't notice you. Finnegan's hand hovered over the doorhandle to the flat, knowing full well that if he entered, there would be no turning back. It was still early morning, hours before the ceremony started, he could still turn away. He must've seemed like a troubled kid, hanging around an old building like that wearing trainers and a hoodie. He had had no intention of honoring this farce with any effort to dress properly, but his choice of loose-fitting and decidely pedestrian muggle attire, wasn't doing him any favors now. A neighbour across the street might come to all the wrong conclusions, seeing him lounge about the old building, seeming quite on edge. *** He'd almost missed his stop, but the jolt of the train carriage coming to a halt had shaken him awake in the nick of time. The air was cooler this far out of London, cooler and saltier, though the capital's stench still faintly lingered in the air. Under normal circumstances he would have used his phone to navigate his way to the cloister, but these weren't normal circumstances. Poor reception aside, electronics were unlikely to work properly in the area, so he settled for a map from a tourist information center with trails on it. No one saw a lone, out of place kid hiking up the seaside path, everyone just silently assumed that parents and a sibling or two were nearby. He'd shared his doubts in his correspondence with @Evelynn Decipio about coming here. He'd issued her a warning not to eat or drink anything they served there, a reflection of the same paranoia that both Gideon and Mathias seemed to live by. @Mathias Pride wasn't even his biggest concern. In fact, the young man would likely be rather gleeful about seeing him there. Which was yet another reason not come, so as to not give Pride the satisfaction of some imagined victory. Then there was Gideon (would he be wearing that stupid froghat again?), who he had managed to largely avoid in recent months. Why would he risk breaking their effective truce? It wasn't like he could stop this wedding. No one had been able to, and it wasn't like @Winnie Harper would be grateful for being rescued from the claws of her monster. for @Evelynn Decipio Reducio I still have to put the letter(s) up, but I was going to put the warning against eating/drinking any of the food being served, and expressing Finn's doubts about attending in the first letter, so I thought it'd be OK to already reference that here. The higher he got, the windier it became. Finnegan pushed his hood up to keep warm. The weather-beaten path gave way to a lawn and ivy-covered mansion which he might have paused to admire if he didn't think time was of the essence. He wished he hadn't lost his invisibility and camo cloak in the Forbidden Forest, it would have made it easier to hide. The only thing working to his advantage was that he had deliberately arrived late so that all the guests would already be inside. Sainsbury might not sell handgrenades, but it did sell compacts and talcum powder, both of which rested in the kangaroo pocket on his hoodie, alongside his wand. He had no idea what, if anything, he could use the small mirror in the compact for, but the statement on the invitation that no mirrors would be present struck him as odd. Why wouldn't there be? Why mention it? That alone would be reason enough to bring one, but he remembered what he had read in Professor Lecuyer's book too. Aamon had mentioned a cousin who had complained about mirrors and glass. About screaming reflections. And then @Orion Lécuyer had stated it even more clearly: "Mirrors are a common theme when it comes to curses. Almost everyone owns one, and the superstitions behind them have bled even into muggle culture. If there is something screaming inside the mirror, it is less likely a delusion on her end and more likely that someone is trapped inside of the mirror. Hags do use them, they use Blood Mirrors to trap their victims, but you can release them if you break the mirror beneath the moonlight." Source What he couldn't work out yet was the connection. If there was a connection at all. Maybe Pride just didn't like mirrors because they kept shattering whenever he looked at one, maybe it was that simple. Maybe it was not. Not attending the ceremony inside the Cathedral. Instead heading straight toward the Augury Cloister and attempting to arrive there early. Mods are free to do rolls if need be, though I suspect this might only become relevant at the reception, so in another thread.

Mentions: @Erin Ryan, @Winnie Harper, @Mathias Pride

Calm wind brushed against him as Jacob walked into the towering Cathedral, he had disapperated nearby where no one would hear, he came into the room before the wedding began, he was one of the last to arrive. He was wearing his best suit that would fit a wedding of this nature, red and gold suited him, well. He order the tailor to make it just for this occasion.

The place was eerie, this was the last place he wanted to be. He wanted to be somewhere nice for his wedding, especially not like Sanctum Noctis. But his mother, who was coming later on after she and his cousins dealt with some gnomes. Would be there during the reception

He sat near the back, he was far from the only one from the students that had graduated last year, Erin Ryan, who had seemed to be in the process of becoming an Auror.

While he could tell she was slowly slipping into madness because of the ordeal, she was in a while back with the hags. He was invited by the Athanatos family, but had no idea why, he didn't like what he was hearing from them. So were his mother and cousins. Except for his muggle family apparently.

Then the ceremony began, this didn't feel right.

Jacob thought to himself as the words were being said by the priest 'Is this really a wedding or a cult sacrifice on an altar.' He wanted to stop it, to say Stop this wedding now, but the words didn't even reach his lips.

He just couldn't do it. She seemed so happy to be there at first that he couldn't do it. Then Mathias, that evil bastard, was saying those words that would echo in his mind long after the wedding had ended. What he heard about him wasn't good

He didn't know the bride, but he had a feeling that she was going to go through hell. Both of them were too young in any case. So he would remain silent when the priest said as much. At the reception, he would interfere.

This... was an intervention.

The ceremony continued, in spite of the concern and disquiet that seemed to perpetuate this unseen pressure. Promises were made in ash and blood and iron. A binding pact from which much would be gained and much would be lost. But the red threads of fate would twist about their futures and make invisible knots.

“And if none should infringe upon this union,” intoned Nepenthe, the high priest of the Sanctum Noctis, his voice a strange accompaniment of wind and endurance wrapped in incense and omen, “then by the ancient words and the veiled light, I now declare Mathias Pride and Winnie Harper—”

Snap.

The sound cut through the sanctified air like hammer striking iron. A single knell, that seemed to reverberate needlessly long off the high ceiling and the stone walls. Sharp. Precise. A pair of fingers. One act and the threads would shift, snake from their intended path as a change irrevocably changed their future.

The priest’s mouth froze, his thin lips parted, his breath halted, as if the very air had turned to stone in his lungs. His strangely pale eyes widened minutely, not in surprise, but in acknowledgment. He had seen portents and knew that this might happen.

A ripple passed through the congregation. Not a sound. Not a breath. Something else, as the weave took on a new pattern.

The wind outside howled against the stained glass. Candles flickered with sudden violence, throwing shadows like reaching hands across the ancient stone floor. That had nothing to do with the sound or the fact that futures were shifting and fracturing in this pivotal moment, but rather the awesome presence of the patriarch who seemed ooze with barely restrained power.

The priest’s voice had gone dead, yes, but the rite had not broken. Just... paused. What Thaddeus had to say claimed precedence. All eyes shifted between the bride, the groom, and the man who had not spoken, yet whose will had silenced a priest. And in that cavernous hush before the rites resumed—or ruptured—Thaddeus smiled.

It was the sort of smile that foretold a reckoning.

Vladimir Athanatos, the eldest semi-living son of Thaddeus Athanatos moved like a ghost through the heavy silence of the church. None dared, or rather none 'could' deny this union when offered the opportunity. This ceremony was just that, an orderly arrangement of events that would go on as intended no matter the consequence.

Vladimir's footsteps were swallowed by the congregation as he ambled along the outer edge of the cathedral, before the great statues of faceless saints. The legilimens took his place beside his father with neither excuse nor acknowledgment, merely settling into the space as if drawn there by obligation alone. This was his half-brother's wedding after all. The once-heir apparent was late. This was uncharacteristic for the man once renowned for his precision, for his polished manners and relentless competence. Vladimir was once trained to exude perfection, but at every stage in his life, in spite of every advantage afforded him, Vlad stumbled until he fell entirely from grace. Now Vladimir bore the look of something half-lost.

Vladimir also appeared out of place. Despite the stifling English summer heat that clung to the air like sweat on glass, the eldest Athanatos wore a deep, char-black cloak with a high collar that veiled most of his face in shadow. Only a sliver of the man's angular jaw caught the faint, fractured light from the stained glass. His jaw sharp, inhumanly pale, and set tight with restraint. Whatever lay beneath the hood was not meant for the congregation to see. Not today.

Thaddeus did not glance at his haunted son.

He had not expected Vladimir to come at all. His son's presence was a surprise, but not a welcome one. VanCleaf is getting slow with age, Thaddeus thought coldly, his gaze never shifting from the altar. His instincts have dulled. He mistakes ruin for exile. Grief for transformation.

Thaddeus caught the faint scent of grave soil beneath the roses. He wondered if it clung to Vladimir or came from the place from which the roses were cultivated. He could not say.

The ceremony droned on in soft, saccharine vows, the pink garlands trembling gently beneath the weight of a tension that felt palpable. The priest would announce them. Between father and fallen son, there was only silence—a silence dense with judgment, history, and things that could not be said with others listening. But for Pride, a name that was a testimony of his source of power through sin, Thaddeus had something to say.

Thaddeus did not look at Vladimir. He had already buried what Vladimir had once been. His wife should have let him die, leave him with a memory rather than this hollow reflection. Thaddeus snapped his finger and a collective sigh could be felt as invisible bindings slackened. "Not Pride, Athanatos" he declared, his voice thundered with power and confidence. "I name him my heir."

The silence that followed Thaddeus’s proclamation was not empty, it resonated. Many had not fully realized that Mathias Pride was a son of Thaddeus Athanatos, the patriarch of the famed Seer family. The reason for this was never widely published, but it was a subject of idle curiosity for some. He was not the only illegitimate son, he had several half-brothers and a full-brother, all of them shared in the Athanatos name. What could a small child have done to be expelled from a bloodline that bears the legacy of those like Gideon?

It was rumored that Mathias was unwanted, his creation the product of cruel trickery and his isolation of the line a punishment for the mother inflicted on the son. So rather, given a name of sin to bear like a scarlet letter. The surname Pride was a name associated with hubris, defiance, and self-idolatry. A name given rather than inherited. Some noted that when used in contrast to the more ancient and ominous Athanatos name, "Pride" feelt modern, almost like a mask; an adopted name used to disguise or deny bloodline truth.

The reason did not matter.

The patriarch's words hummed, "Not Pride, Athanatos." A single phrase of power thay broke invisible shackles, changed intended fates. The moniker Pride had a power of its own, attachments and obligations that now fell away from Mathias like cracked glass from a stained window. Somewhere in the archway over the duo, who knew which faded first, the enchanted garlands of blush roses wilted in one synchronized breath, as if the magic in the room had shifted course.

The priest, Nepenthe, did not falter. It had already been seen as a potential path for the fates. Not the only path, since there were many before roads were chosen. His eyes rolled once beneath their lids, like someone shaking off a vision not meant to be seen. When they opened, they glistened black for the briefest of moments—ink spilled in glass—before returning to their usual unsettling icy calm.

He looked at Mathias.

Then at Thaddeus.

And then, without hesitation, he corrected the rite.

“By the breath of the Veil,” Nepenthe intoned again, this time with eerie certainty, “and the bloodline reborn, I now declare before Sanctum and the three…”

Nepenthe paused.

“…Mathias Athanatos and Winnie Harper, bound.”

The old name was gone. Not erased, not forgotten, but overwritten. Like a ghost removed from the ancestral book and replaced by a living heir. Vladimir, dead-alive, it was not relevant, for he was lost.

Then, softly, almost sweetly, the ceremony would come to the expected, storybook resolution as Nepenthe announced "I name you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

But the moment never quite belonged to them. Because from his sleeve, Nepenthe pulled a compact mirror. The mirror shimmered. It was lovely in its simplicity. Silver-backed, delicate, etched in runes. The priest held it not like an object, but like a verdict in the palm of his aged hand. The mirror shattered once it possessed the reflection of the bride and groom.

A burst of silver and crimson that did not reflect, but revealed something to those with sight. As if air had been stolen from their lungs, this was a vision unlike the ones they had before. Something would take them, and pull them beneath metaphorical waters.

Seers experience the following vision:

Guests did not hear a sound when the glass shattered, only a flash of light. However, Seers had a different experience. There was this sound when the glass broke. The noise was this keening sound, high and wet, like laughter choked by drowning.

The Seer does not see the ceremony or the Sanctum any longer. They were somewhere else.

They would find themselves by a sea, black and steaming. The reckless waters reflected a sky split open by seven moons. The shoreline was black stone, shaded by a shelf of porous earth. The Seer would see a figure standing in the surf, ankle-deep, cloaked in veils that flutter without wind. The figure turned towards you. Familiar white hair, a Seer's mane, their eyes the same color. Their sight was unnatural, eyes wrong: lidless, luminous, watching from every mirrored surface.

Then the Seer would see hands.

Thousands of them, gloved in lace, clawing at the surface of the rough waters from within. Each hand bore a ring. Each ring carries a different crest.

The Seer feels one press against their shoulder. No pain, just weight, then heat, then the crushing sensation of being seen by something vast and ancient that does not blink. The hand gloved, bearing a ring with a symbol you know you have seen before. Seen today in fact.

A voice whispers, not in the Seer’s ears, but inside their lungs:

"The mirror shows no future.
Only the memory of what could not be buried."

The ceremony flickers back into view, but everything is out of sequence.
The bride is a child.
The groom is a corpse.
The priest is laughing with blood on his collar.
And the guests… besides the Seers were statues.

And then... the prophets take a gasping breath, as if they had held their breath too long. In a blink, the ceremony is as it was. Only a moment had passed.

The ballroom held its breath as the ceremony ended, not with joy, but with an omen.

Vladimir Athanatos purpose and power in his youth was born in secrets. A born legilimens, this natural talent came from his late mother and this power was a once in a generation event that made him the celebrated Athanatos heir from his earliest memory. It was challenging, despite the perspective that he lived a charmed life, his talent was isolating. He knew what others were thinking. Kind lies were ineffective. Angry thoughts where shared without filter. Vladimir had a lonesome childhood, one where others kept him at arm's length if he did not first. In the crowded Sanctum, the din of chattering thought was deafening. He could not parse what the guests had to say.

His father did not even look at him. He could not tell his father what had happened earlier that day, but he planned to once the crowds thinned. But Vladimir, the disgraced son who was once the honored heir apparent, had not anticipated what his father would say.

Thaddeus raised a single hand and snapped his fingers. A shimmer passed through the air, a spell of silence was dispelled. A spell that Vladimir hadn’t even known had been cast. Explains the lack of protest, he silently admitted as he glanced at the bride and groom.

Then came Thaddeus' voice. Cold, commanding, and terrible in its finality. “Not Pride," he corrected with authority. "Athanatos,” the old man declared, his voice echoing with ancient power. Mathias' former surname "Pride" was his mother's name. A name of sin. The designation of vice. He was denied the Athanatos name, but the prophets refused to explain why. “I name him my heir.” And like -that- Mathias Pride had become Mathias Athanatos, heir apparent. The title irrevocable. Public. Sealed in magic and ominous will.

Vladimir gasped alongside the crowd. He could do nothing but stand still, spine straight, cloaked in shadow and sweat, as the world shifted permanently around him. Time would slow as he tried to come to grips with the passage of honor he had long ago lost but the world would move on.

At the altar, the final vows were spoken. A kiss. Applause. A mirror shattered, an important part of the ceremonial rite. They say that which is broken can still see. Reflections are truth-bearers, even in pieces. But he felt that was not the full truth. The shattering seemed to trigger a prophetic moment in his brethren as well as several others in the attending crowd. He instinctively tried to catch his father when his knees began to buckle under an unseen weight, but the man did not fall.

Vladimir Athanatos rose with the others. His hands were steady, his eyes dry. But something inside him had slipped. As if a door had quietly shut. His brother was gone now, not by death, but by elevation. Claimed. Crowned. Gone to a world Vladimir would never inherit. A world that had once been his by birthright, then stolen by fate, or so he believed, was now freely given to another.

The moment Uncle Thaddeus spoke with a voice like frost spreading over glass, something ancient unfurled in the marrow of the Russian's bones. The name Athanatos was spoken with finality, this designation was not merely an appointment; it was a victory.

Just not for the one who would be celebrating.

Mathias Pride, her pompous rooster of a cousin, with his hollow grin and his smug posture, had been chosen. In spite of her uncle's ultimate reticence, he had taken what had been intended for another, more favored son. But what other son did the aging patriarch have left? His eldest tainted, more a liability than an asset despite the rare legilimens trait. His younger sons: a sociopath and a child plagued by unseen monsters. Mathias was his only choice. The compliant, ambitious son. Born wrong and still chosen. And that, in their family, was the first victory. The will of Thaddeus was louder than the old laws he had abided by for centuries. His declaration was louder still than the warnings in the back of his head.

Something was wrong with that woman. He, her uncle, "knew it." He withheld the name for a reason. Time did not allow him to forget, but rather, ignore his first impression. That sixth sense that screamed something was wrong.

ATHANATOS it was. A kiss. A broken mirror...

A future ruptured. A fate sealed. But it was m ore than that. In occult tradition, a shattered mirror can also release what was bound within it. A vision, not the kind modern Seers have grown accustomed to that were more like moving pictures, this one was ancient and filled with symbolism. Taylor raised her arm, tried to look away, but the flash took her.

Several housed within the dark stone of Sanctum Noctis would find themselves consumed by the divine light. The priest’s voice had already become a memory, but the prophecy did not come from him. This predated him. It was an ancient warning for heirs, members of the main house, surviving extended family. For members of the bloodline, it was a vision of caution. For those looking in at the clan, the vision might be seen as a night-terror.

Taylor could feel her aunties. Far away now, yet they were in her marrow. So close. She could hear their teeth clicking in her head. The bones in their pockets shaking. For a man that knew what would be, he was sometimes blinder than the first prophets.

The world tilted sideways, and Taylor Athanatos, daughter of winter, godchild of prophecy, raised by crones in the shadow of a home that walked on chicken legs, fell into the pew like a doll whose strings had been severed. Her pupils dilated to pinpricks and she saw the ceremonial warning, the patriarchy that had overtaken the first coven, and perpetuated their hold by never changing, eating their own and leaving a generational warning.

In a language of dread and inevitability, the mirror was a fractured glimpse of what was mingled with symbolism, but tainted by fear. But there was a warning for the groom, one his sin would not allow him to recognize. A warning for his bride.

But the thread has slipped the loom and the old gods blinked. The new ones watched. And Taylor Athanatos sat, Sanctum spinning, as the ash settled in her mouth, tasting the beginning of the end.