Chapter 23: Threads of Fate

The next few days at Durmstrang felt like walking a tightrope for Dorian Selwyn. The aftermath of Ingrid's death and Yaxley's sudden disappearance had cast a long shadow over the school, and though whispers followed Dorian wherever he went, no one dared approach him directly. The students who had once eyed him with a mix of fear and admiration now kept their distance entirely, sensing that something within him had shifted.

In truth, something had. Dorian could feel it in the way he walked through the halls, in the way he held his magic at bay instead of letting it dictate his every move. There was still power, vast and untamed, pulsing beneath his skin, but for the first time in months, it didn't feel like it was suffocating him.

Lyra Blackthorn's words echoed in his mind constantly, a steady counterpoint to the dark magic's persistent whispers. Accept it. Stop fighting it. The more you resist, the stronger it becomes. Dorian wasn't sure how to put that into practice yet, but he had taken the first step by recognizing the truth in what she had said.

He spent the next few days in a state of cautious introspection. He kept to himself more than usual, reading through the dark tomes in Durmstrang's vast library, though his approach to them was different now. Where before he had sought to unlock every secret, to devour every forbidden spell in his quest for ultimate power, now he found himself reading with a more measured purpose. He needed knowledge, yes—but he needed control more.

Every evening, he returned to the upper tower where Lyra resided, and their conversations grew longer, more complex. They discussed magic, power, and control in a way Dorian had never experienced before. She never lectured him, nor did she offer simple solutions. Instead, she asked questions—questions that forced Dorian to confront the parts of himself he had long buried beneath ambition and anger.

One evening, as they sat in her dimly lit study, Lyra asked a question that lingered in the air between them like a spell waiting to be cast.

"Why do you want this power, Dorian?"

Dorian looked up from the ancient scroll he had been studying, startled by the simplicity of her question. He had been asked that before, but it was always in a tone of challenge or mockery, as if people couldn't believe someone like him could rise to greatness. But Lyra's tone was different—it wasn't accusatory. She truly wanted to know.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the scroll again, though his thoughts were far from its text. Why did he want this power? The answer had always seemed so clear to him before: vengeance. Justice for his mother's death. A reclamation of the Selwyn family's lost legacy. But as the days had passed since Ingrid's sacrifice, Dorian had begun to question whether those reasons were enough.

"I want… control," Dorian said slowly, feeling the weight of the truth as he spoke it aloud. "Control over my fate. Over my life. I've spent too long being shaped by what others have done—by what they've taken from me. I don't want to be at the mercy of anyone ever again."

Lyra was silent for a moment, her green eyes studying him intently. "And you think power will give you that control?"

Dorian met her gaze, his expression hardening slightly. "It's the only thing that can."

Lyra's lips pressed into a thin line, and she leaned back in her chair. "Power might give you the ability to change your circumstances, but it won't necessarily give you control over yourself. In fact, the more power you have, the more you're bound by it."

Dorian frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lyra set down the quill she had been holding, folding her hands in her lap. "Look at what's happened to you so far. The more power you've gained, the more you've lost control of it. It's consumed you, driven you to make decisions you wouldn't have made otherwise. Ingrid's death, for example—do you think that was entirely your choice?"

Dorian stiffened, his mind flashing back to the night of the battle with Yaxley. He had wanted to protect Ingrid, to keep her from harm, but in the end, he had let the magic take the reins. The raw force of it had overwhelmed him, and he had lost sight of what truly mattered.

"I didn't mean for her to die," Dorian said quietly, his voice laced with regret.

"I know," Lyra replied softly. "But that's the point. The more power you gather, the more it demands from you. It takes pieces of you—your choices, your will—and replaces them with its own. That's why so many people who chase dark magic end up destroying themselves. They think they can control it, but they don't realize they're the ones being controlled."

Dorian's fists clenched in his lap. He hated how much her words rang true. He had always believed that he could master the dark magic, that he could wield it without falling prey to the same fate as so many others before him. But Ingrid's death, the reckless rituals, the overwhelming hunger for power—it had all led him to the edge of something far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

"So what do I do?" he asked, his voice low but steady. "How do I stop it from taking more?"

Lyra regarded him for a long moment before standing up and moving to one of the shelves. She pulled out a thick, leather-bound book and handed it to him. "This is a journal written by a wizard who, like us, delved into the dark arts. But unlike most, he survived. He didn't let the magic consume him, and in these pages, he explains how."

Dorian took the book, his fingers brushing over the worn cover. It felt heavy, not just in weight but in significance. "Why are you helping me?" he asked, looking up at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "What do you gain from this?"

Lyra's expression softened, though her eyes remained sharp. "Because I've been where you are, Dorian. And I know how easy it is to lose yourself to this magic. I don't want to see that happen to you."

Dorian studied her for a moment longer, searching for any hint of ulterior motive, but all he found was sincerity. It was unsettling, in a way. He wasn't used to people offering help without some form of selfish intent. But Lyra seemed different. She had her own darkness, her own power, but she wasn't consumed by it. And maybe, just maybe, she could help him find that same balance.

"I'll read it," Dorian said, his voice firmer now.

Lyra nodded. "Good. And take your time with it. Rushing through this won't help. You need to be patient."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."

Lyra's own lips quirked in response, though it was fleeting. "You'll learn. Or you'll burn yourself out."

Dorian nodded, his grip tightening on the journal as he stood to leave. "Thanks… for this."

As he turned to go, Lyra called out, her voice halting him just before he reached the door.

"One more thing, Dorian."

He glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

Lyra's gaze was intense, her voice laced with something that almost sounded like warning. "Don't mistake learning control for abandoning your power. You need both. If you suppress it too much, it'll come back stronger. Balance isn't about holding back—it's about knowing when to let it go."

Dorian absorbed her words, a strange mix of relief and tension settling in his chest. He nodded once before stepping out of her study, the door closing quietly behind him.

The castle was quieter than usual as Dorian made his way back to his own room, the journal held tightly in his hands. His mind raced with Lyra's words, with the possibilities that lay ahead of him. He had spent so long chasing power that he had lost sight of what truly mattered—control, balance, purpose.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Dorian wasn't driven by vengeance or hunger for more. He was driven by something else—something quieter, more focused. He wanted to understand the magic he wielded, not just use it blindly. He wanted to master it, not let it master him.

But even as he felt this newfound determination settle over him, a familiar voice echoed in the back of his mind—the dark magic, whispering its seductive promises, urging him to take more, to push further. It would always be there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for him to slip.

Dorian knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy. But for the first time, he felt ready to face it.