His meeting with his father went well, at least as well as it could have considering the circumstances. Their relationship was complicated, to the observer cold and without consideration. In truth, their relationship was defined more by fear than pride, anger and regret more than ire. It does something to a man over time. It warps them in terrible ways as they bend and bow in search of light.

The iron gates of the Athanatos estate groaned shut behind Vladimir, the echo of the weight of those gates reverberating through the hollow night. Vladimir paused at the threshold of his family's dominion, his breath visible in the frigid air. Above him, the moon hung low, pale and distant, a mere sliver of silvery light, offering the nocturnal creature no comfort. The estate loomed, its silhouette jagged against the star-splattered sky—dark spires reaching like claws attempting to tear down those celestial gems. This estate was nothing more than a monument to centuries of blood and ambition.

Thaddeus' voice still thundered in his ears, even in the silence that followed his exit.

"Do not fail me again."

The words burned. Vladimir's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. Anger? No—shame. Shame burrowed deep, festering like rot beneath skin too pale to bleed. He had stood there, stripped bare of his pride, condemned by the man who made him and broken by the darkness he had embraced. They had shared sin, their mistakes would follow their progeny. A part of him knew that it was only partially their fault. Their sentiment, their resentment, their prejudices and fear had turned them into the very monsters of the night that they had been taught as children to fear.

A faint breeze stirred, carrying the scent of damp earth and cold stone. It was enough to jar him from his spiraling thoughts. He drew himself up, shoulders squared, eyes like smoldering coals piercing the blackness before him. No matter what Thaddeus thought, he was not weak.

Not anymore.

But then—a flicker.

Not a sound, but a thought. It slithered at the edge of his consciousness, too quick to pin down but enough to make the hairs at the nape of his neck rise. Someone—no, something—was near.

Vladimir’s steps slowed. His mind sharpened, his Legilimency reaching out like unseen tendrils, only to be met with a blank void where thought should have been. A predator’s silence.

Gone?

And then—

“Vladimir.”

Her voice melted through the night like silk, and for a moment, he hated how familiar it felt.

He turned, and there she was.

She stood where the shadows kissed the edge of the trees, half-veiled by moonlight, half-consumed by night. A vision in dark velvet and pale skin, her beauty as cold and sharp as the blade of a dagger. She was old, but he had no idea how old she actually was. Her long, white hair met her waist. Her eyes the color of fresh blood met his, unblinking, unyielding.

“You move like a hunted man,” Morgantha said, stepping forward with the grace of a phantom. The click of her heels barely heard on stone. Her voice, low and lilting, carried the weight of ancient power and honeyed menace. “Or is it guilt that weighs your steps?”

The ground seemed to whisper dark warnings, fearsome promises beneath her as she drew closer, her head tilting ever so slightly as though studying prey.

“What were you doing here?”

She stopped mere inches from him, the scent of lilies and old earth lingering in her wake. Her lips curved, the faintest suggestion of amusement dancing at the corners.

“Speaking to your father?” Her voice dipped, caressing the words. “Or burying secrets?” They often spoke in hushed voices, coming and going in the night, her time thinking in some childish way that they were somehow safer in the dark.

Vladimir met her gaze, his features hard and unyielding. But beneath the mask, the tension in his shoulders betrayed the crack in his composure. He should have known she would notice him. It was impossible to hide from her, had had tried before. And Morgantha was not the sort of woman who let loose ends linger.

“I owed father a visit.” His voice was measured, calm—too calm. He tried to step past her, he tried to reclaim the space between them. To make his presence his once again. “I needed clarity on a family matter. Nothing more.”

The words felt heavy as he spoke them, brittle against the weight of her stare. He knew the moment they left his lips that they would not be enough. He felt something tremble inside of him.

“You should trust me.” He turned slightly, meeting her eyes again. “I would never jeopardize... this”

His hand made a sweeping motion, but it lacked the grace the motion should have displayed. Rigid, tense, as if belonging to someone else. His eyes glanced back at the estate, it was too far and offered no true security. She could enter. The road, no she could catch him.

He needed to hold his ground.

The lie slid between them like a blade, but Morgantha let it hang for only a moment before tearing it out. And like drawing a blade from flesh, Vladimir bled.

“Trust?” she repeated, a single breath of laughter curling out. Her bare hand snapped forward, seizing his wrist with inhuman strength, and in an instant, her grip burned like fire against his skin. her long, dark, talon-like nails bit into his pale flesh, tearing through the thick fabric that separated him from the night's chill.

“Don’t insult me, Vladimir.” Her voice was softer now, but all the more dangerous for it. “We do not lie to each other.”

And then—pain.

It struck like a storm, sharp and searing as her mind plunged into his. No doors. No walls. She shattered through his defenses with practiced cruelty, wrenching his secrets into the open as easily as plucking wings from an insect.

His thoughts were not his own. She unraveled them, tore through them, dragged the truth to the surface. The boy. The letter. The dolls. The hags.

Her nails bit into his skin, her terrible red eyes burning into his as she fed off his suffering.

“There it is,” Morgantha breathed, savoring the tremor that passed through him. “You always try to hide it—this fear of yours. But you forget…” Her painted smile deepened, dark and hungry. “I made you.”

Her grip loosened, but the tension did not fade. Instead, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

“So, this is what has you running back to him?” She gestured toward the estate behind them. “Ghosts of the past? The whispers of dead things? Or perhaps,” her lips brushed against his ear, “it’s the fear that you’re still one of them.”

She stepped back, releasing him at last, but her eyes never left his.

“You’ll tell me everything,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Every last word he said to you. Every last thing you fear.”

And then, softer, almost sweetly—

“Don’t make me ask again.”

Vladimir’s teeth clenched as he fought against the invasive pressure of Morgantha’s will, but it was no use. Her presence lingered in his mind like smoke, impossible to disperse. No matter how deeply he buried his secrets, she had the patience—and the cruelty—to rip them from him piece by piece.

The simmering anger beneath his skin flared, but it was matched only by shame. Shame that she had this hold over him. That his blood right was lost due to his foolishness and pride. That while he was saved, it came at a terrible cost. Shame that his father had been right—he was weak. A man undone by his own arrogance, his foolish belief that he could command the dark instead of being consumed by it.

And now it was happening again.

His voice, when it came, was low and hoarse.

“They’re back,” he admitted, the words like ash in his mouth. “Or someone knows how to bring them back.”

His burning eyes bore into her with defiance even as he laid himself bare. “Aamon has been targeted. Dolls bound to him. Hag magic, like the kind that we thought was destroyed. They’re binding to him—becoming him—and dragging him toward the forest still teeming with lingering dark magic.”

He paused, the memory of his father’s fury boiling inside him. He left out parts, things that he knew but dared not say. Not to her.

Morgantha laughed as Vladimir spoke—a soft, lilting sound that twisted in the air like a knife through silk.

“Oh, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery and perhaps false concern. “You and your father are so very alike.”

She tilted her head, red eyes glinting in the moonlight as if savoring the cruelty of the moment.

“Always so certain. So proud. So clever. So very brave..."[/b] A familiar phrase. "Yet it’s the simplest truths that always seem to slip past you both, isn’t it?”

Her lips curved into a wicked smile, more predatory than affectionate. Not that she was ever tender or kind.

“You really thought they’d stay dead?” She let the question hang, the words slithering between them. The hags, the terrible being that they thought, no they were absolutely certain, were dead. “That you could ever bury something so… ancient?”

Morgantha circled him slowly, her fingers trailing along the edge of his sleeve like a spider weaving its web.

“Of course you lost control. Of course they, no you failed. It was never in your nature. You’re so human,” she breathed, her voice soft but insidious, “even now. Always trying to fix what was never yours to fix.”

She stepped closer, her gaze sharp enough to cut.

“But it’s already done. Whatever this is—whoever this is—they’ve made their move. And neither you nor Thaddeus can stop it now.”

Her smile lingered, but her eyes betrayed something darker—amusement tempered with the faintest flicker of hunger.

Vladimir’s shoulders stiffened as Morgantha’s words settled like ice in his veins. He wanted to lash out, to deny her, to tear apart her cruel amusement and remind her that he wasn’t hers.

But she was right.

And that burned more than anything.

His burning eyes—somehow cold despite their crimson hue were unreadable—they met hers as he stepped back, reclaiming what little ground he could.

He knew they were dead. He had killed Marion with his own hand. He scattered what little remained. There was no returning, no reforming. She. Was. Dead. And even if she was no, their home was like a fortress. He did not tell her nor did he tell his father, but this right here gave him a certain clarity that he had previously lacked.

“Father moves against you." He admitted, she would have extracted that from him even if he tried to deny her. "He is aware of Aamon's peril and is responding accordingly." No lies, he could not lie and he knew it.

What he did not tell her was his secret thoughts. Ones she would likely discover soon enough. The fact that he knew. That she had given herself away by being so interested. "If it’s already started,” he said, voice low and steady, “then I won’t waste time arguing about it with you.” And he was buy his family some more time.

He turned sharply, his cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.

“Aamon will be staying with me for the holidays.”

The bait set.

Vladimir strode into the night, leaving Morgantha in the dark, but her laughter lingered long after he disappeared from view.