Prologue: Scene #3 & #4Mature


At two a.m. that next morning, Arsenio holds himself against the cold, shaking fiercely. Luce has no idea where he is, or at least he hopes he doesn’t. In order to avoid his suspicion, Arsenio had to sneak out and change his clothes to a grimy, everyday sweatshirt and hoodie. When he left, Luce was dead asleep, snoring even. He would have figured someone from the older times would be a little more elegant than a sprawled out mess of gurgled noises when sleeping. 

 At this point he must have already waited an hour, what could be taking them? He wonders. Yet, just as he thinks those very thoughts, they emerge through the fog outside of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, just a few meters from him. They are also dressed in more regular garb, tossing away the idiotic traditions that had been displayed earlier. They approach swiftly, their feet gliding silently across the cobble stones. 

“Were you followed?” Maga asks quietly, not wanting to awake anyone in the nearby apartments. 

Arsenio grins, “Of course not, give me some credit. But, I am worried that Luce may be on to us-”

“-You never mind Luce, he won’t do anything to stop us. Its not his way; Luce is far too invested in destiny to interfere with the target’s future.”

Arsenio is compliant, but still unsure. He knows though, no one questions Maga.

“Now,” she continues, “the rules still remain in terms of powers and attacking each other. However, one of you must persuade her to choose our coven. Consider it...friendly competition.”

Darios and Arsenio look at each other, hatred spewing from every orifice. What a punk, really thinking Maga actually has any faith in him. Arsenio thinks to himself. He was well aware that for years she has grown wary of his disappearances and reclusion, his secrets. “And what of the person who loses this so called competition? What are the consequences of failure?” 

Maga’s smile grows wide and frightening, it always reminds Arsenio of a more evil version of the Cheshire Cat when she does that. “My dears, whichever of you bring me the target, will reap rewards beyond imagination. And whichever of you fails, will reap pains and tortures beyond physical comprehension. Am I clear?”

They both bow our heads, respectfully. “Then we’re ready. Go separately to London, find the target, and bring her to me. 

Bring her home.”


Up at one of the balconies of the nearby buildings in the square of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, sits Luce, cloaked in darkness. He smiles that same amused smile he had employed at the meeting earlier that day. When he watches the betrayal of his envoy, he is not deterred, he is not shocked. He only gives a peculiar laugh and walks back into the building. “So there are things both sides aren’t telling, Maga.”

The End

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