Chapter Eleven: The Convergence
Elysium lowered her head as they moved through Abaddon. Heavy clouds smothered the sun, casting long, bruised shadows across the village. Rain began to prickle the air, the droplets forming rippling circles in the muddy streets. Smoke billowed from crooked chimneys, mingling with a low-hanging fog that clung to the damp cobblestones.
Elysium clutched her satchel to her side; dark magic villages were notorious for what they stole. Alastor, however, walked with the effortless stride of a man who owned the place—which, technically, he did. Villagers paused to wave or bow their heads in silent reverence. Elysium squinted at them, trying to discern if their respect was born of genuine adoration or a deep-seated fear.
"Keep up," Alastor muttered, glancing back.
Elysium huffed, folding her arms as she hopped over a growing puddle. They came to a halt before a small Tudor house, its timber-framed walls leaning slightly over the street and candlelight flickering behind leaded glass windows. Alastor knocked thrice. The door creaked open to reveal an older man with silver hair and eyes the color of deep charcoal. He offered a weak, weary smile.
"Ah, yes. Prince Kaelthorn," the man said gently, stepping aside.
The man didn't acknowledge Elysium, offering her only a fleeting, curious look that made her swallow hard. Inside, the home smelled of sage and drying herbs strung from the low ceiling beams, the air thick with the heavy scent of incense. Wrinkling her nose, Elysium drifted toward the roaring fireplace. She crouched, stretching her palms toward the heat. Behind her, Alastor and the old man spoke in hushed, rhythmic tones.
The man eventually nodded and disappeared down a hallway, returning moments later with two bundles of dark fabric. He handed them to Alastor, who turned to Elysium with a familiar, mischievous glint in his eye. He caught her wrist and began leading her toward the back of the house.
"What's going on?" she demanded.
"You're going to see what dark magic is really like," he said, his voice thrumming with uncharacteristic excitement.
Elysium shook her head, pushing the bundle back toward his chest. "Absolutely not."
"You don't have a choice," Alastor countered. "They won't respect you if you don't attend."
"Attend what?"
"The Convergence." Alastor's smile widened as he tossed a dress onto the bed. "Too many questions. Get dressed. I'll be outside."
Elysium let out a frustrated breath but eventually began to dress. She stepped into the midnight-black gown, cinching the structured, lace-trimmed bodice. The sheer, off-the-shoulder sleeves felt cold against her skin, and the black choker with its silver crescent moon felt like a brand at her throat. A heavy black hood completed the look. Seeing herself enriched in the colors of dark magic made her skin crawl; her wardrobe was a world of ivory and soft pastels.
When she stepped back into the hall, her breath caught. Alastor stood there in a charcoal-black tunic of heavy, pleated linen. A voluminous cowl was wrapped around his shoulders, and his hands were encased in fitted leather gloves. His dark, tousled hair fell over his brow beneath the shadow of his hood.
"You look good in dark magic," he remarked, his eyes tracing the line of the gown. "It suits you."
Elysium punched his shoulder and brushed past him, rolling her eyes to hide the heat in her cheeks.
The old man led them back out into the streets, which had been transformed. Silk streamers were woven between the rooftops, and silver dust had been scattered in perfect ritual circles. Tables groaned under the weight of dark fruits—plums, black figs, and split pomegranates. Bonfires roared, but the flames licked the air in shades of violet instead of orange, accompanied by the haunting, hollow whistle of bone flutes.
As the villagers gathered, a heavy silence fell. Alastor stepped into the center of the ring of fires. As he held his hands to the violet flames, the fire turned a bottomless black. The crowd roared in approval as dark smoke billowed into the rainy sky. Lightning fractured the clouds above, and a cheer finally erupted, breaking the ritual tension.
The silence evaporated into a celebration. Taverns poured free pitchers of ale, and the villagers began to dance in the rain. Elysium retreated to the shadows of a stone kiosk, watching Alastor. He was already deep in the fray, drunkenly hooking arms with the locals.
Her heart sank when she saw a woman approach him. Luna Noctryn was a legend in Abaddon, known for a beauty that was as cold as it was unmatched. Her complexion was pale as frost, her eyes a piercing, crystalline blue, and her raven-black hair tumbled past her shoulders. She wore a gown of heavy black silk with a dramatic floor-length cape that trailed like a shadow.
Luna brushed Alastor's shoulder, leaning into his ear. "It must be exhausting, escorting light everywhere," she snickered.
Alastor laughed, running a hand nervously through his hair. Angered, Elysium snatched a pitcher from a nearby counter and downed it. Then another. By the third, the world was beginning to tilt.
She marched forward just as Luna was leaning in toward Alastor's face. Elysium tapped his shoulder, her arms folded. "You're telling me we have two kingdoms to save, and you're focusing on a girl?"
Luna's eyes flickered to Elysium with a hiss. "Does she always follow you?"
Alastor laughed, wrapping an arm around Luna's shoulder. "Green is rather loud here, don't you think?" Luna added, mocking the color of Elysium's home crest.
Elysium's jaw tightened. She looked Luna up and down, her gaze hardening despite the alcohol. "Desperation is, too."
Luna's face fell. She pulled away from Alastor, her cheeks flushing a deep red. "I apologize, your majesty," she muttered, bowing and retreating into the crowd.
Alastor turned to Elysium, looking more annoyed than impressed. "You look very comfortable being worshipped," she snapped.
"And you look uncomfortable not being."
Elysium chewed the inside of her cheek, the world spinning. Alastor caught the scent of ale on her breath and groaned. "You're drunk."
"Go figure!" she cried, throwing her hands up.
Without a word, Alastor swept her off her feet. He ignored her kicking and cursing as he hauled her back to the house and dumped her onto the bed. He sighed, dragging a quilt to the floor to make a makeshift bed for himself.
"There are three bedrooms," Elysium mumbled, curling into a ball on top of the comforter.
"Believe me," Alastor said, resting his head on his hands as he looked up at the ceiling. "I'd much rather be in a real bed."
"Then go."
"And leave you to choke in your sleep?" He offered a tired, lopsided grin. "I think not, you drunken fool."
Elysium huffed, dramatically turning her back to him and pulling a pillow over her head.