(Author’s POV)
A cloaked figure stands in a room like being carved of stone and silence. The location is a high tower, which, for the figure, feels like the top of the world.
The room is not large, but its height gives it a breathless, vaulted feel, as if standing inside a hollowed-out candle. The air is cool and slls of ancient paper, dried herbs, and the sharp, pungent scent of mixed concoctions that linger after a spell.
Everything leads to the centre, where a round table of flawless black marble rests. Like a pool of stillness, its surface is so smooth it appears liquidish. And upon it, cradled like a waiting world, rests a globe.
It is not a mapmaker’s globe but rather is made of glass. Its surface swirls with slow, cumulonimbus clouds, charcoal grey, and the bruised purple of a twilight sky.
Dreams flicker beneath them; images swirl like waves of the ocean. This is the heart of the room, the still point around which all magic turns. It is here the cloaked figure leans, hands hovering on, the misty sphere, darkened, hateful eyes seeing not reflections, but the tangled roots of tomorrow; the tomorrow to co.
The cunning eyes watch and observe.
A single, tall window offers a slender slice of the outside world. By day, it fras an endless tapestry of sky; by night, a sprawl of stars and, most importantly, the Constellation of Orion.
One wall of the room is a niche of knowledge: shelves hewn from the sa dark stone groan under the weight of books. Their spines are made of cracked leather, faded vellum, or wood bound with iron. They do not rest quietly; they hum with dark magic contained within them. So are sealed with tiny black locks that resemble tar and coal. A heaviness weighs around this place. A heaviness which disturbs the heart.
The opposite wall is an alchemist’s heaven. The shelves are lined with bottles, flasks, and glass jars. Potions in every viscous hue, erald, sanguine, swirling green and electric blue.
Bunches of dark mandrake roots, dried leaves and forgotten flowers. Crystal clusters humming at their own frequency also rest on these shelves.
Light cos from no visible source. It drips from the charged air around the globe, to glimr from the very essences in the jars. It is a watchful, waiting light.
And on the front wall is an ominous fra carved from a tree’s wood which no longer exists. It contains two baby wings. Darkness around them doesn’t let the colours be shown.
This is not a place for comfort, but for dark secrets and whispers. It is a crucible of sight, where the future is not read, but witnessed through the globe by this mysterious figure.
The whispers caught in the swirling globe, its ingredients waiting on the shelf, and its oldest secrets pressed silent between leather and dust, all held in this secret space of this cloaked figure.
The bony hands swirl over the globe and the face of Amaia appears with her mates. A snarl leaves the crooked mouth of the figure, who doesn’t appear pleased.
"She keeps getting closer to them. Even with all the curses. Now an intervention from the stars. That prophecy should never co true." Hands continue to rapidly move over the globe. The images shift, flashing one after the other, images of the future, blazing away.
"A rift, I need a rift between her and her mates. This can’t continue."
The cunning eyes continue to watch, sifting through them until one vision stills. Swirling like coloured, ominous smoke.
A twisted, evil smile graces the thin lips, making them turn upwards, like a Grinch’s.
"This. This is what I need. Chaos and more chaos. Break her spirit, turn her mates against her, isolate her until no one is left beside her."
This is a plan to ruin Amaia and her mates. Make her suffer. The silent figure hates how the curse that had been placed using Huradis is almost being lifted. That one after the other, her mates have recognised her.
Once Alnilam accepts Amaia as his mate, the curse will completely disappear from Amaia, setting her free.
Putting curses is not easy. It requires an imnse amount of power and sacrifices. One needs to be stronger than the person who needs to be cursed.
With Amaia gaining power day by day and becoming stronger the more her mates recognise her, it’s not going to be easy for the cloaked figure to continue cursing.
"You won’t survive and you will never be happy. Only my children deserve to have all the power and joys. Your ruin will bring them happiness."
Moving away from the globe and the round table, the figure glides towards the window. Pushing it open, a cold gust of wind is brought inside. The gaze longingly stares out at the Constellation of Orion, particularly at three stars in the corner.
"We will et soon. Everything I do is for the three of you. My precious ones...soon we will unite and Orion will be ours." There is a longing in the voice. An imnse amount of limitless love for the particular figures and stars.
The bony hand clenches as if crushing sothing between the fingers.
"The Dread Army will do what’s required and I will clean up the rest." The words silently flow out and into the wind.
"Ti to use my pawns and then annihilate them when they serve their purpose."
An evil plan is formulated, at that ti, ready to hatch. A prophecy which had been revealed years ago was being prevented from getting fulfilled.
Will the evil succeed, or will the forces of the light complete the prophecy and let the world see a new order?
The order of peace and tranquillity without the existence of the Dread Army.
And what role will the Constellation of Orion play when everything finally unfolds?.
The secrets will co spilling out, shocking everyone to their cores.
The question is, will everyone we love survive?
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