Weeks passed since Lyra's departure, and Dorian felt the weight of her absence like a tangible void. He hadn't realized just how much she had come to mean to him, not just as a stabilizing force but as his first and only true friend. Without her presence, the world around him felt heavier, darker, and far more dangerous. Her advice about balance and control had been a tether, pulling him back from the edge when he teetered too close to losing himself. Now, with that tether gone, Dorian was left drifting through the shadows alone.
At first, he had tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. He continued his studies in the depths of Durmstrang's dark library, pushing further into the ancient texts and rituals that had once fascinated him. But something was different now. The magic felt more alive, more insistent, like it was no longer something he could wield but something that was beginning to wield him. It whispered to him, its voice louder than ever before, urging him to let go of the restraint Lyra had helped him maintain.
Dorian sat in one of the darker corners of the library, his hands gripping the edges of a musty old tome on blood magic. His mind wandered, unable to focus on the words in front of him. His thoughts kept circling back to Lyra. She had left to visit her aunt, someone who had apparently helped her control her own dark magic when she was younger. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of darkness she had battled, and how close she had come to losing herself.
More than that, he wondered if she had felt the same pull that now gnawed at his insides—the same insidious whispers that told him power was within his grasp if only he would stop resisting.
With a sharp intake of breath, Dorian slammed the book shut and pushed it away. His magic crackled within him, unsettled, as if it were protesting his attempt to ignore it. His hands trembled, and he could feel the darkness slithering through his veins, aching for release. It was harder to fight without Lyra there to ground him, without her sharp words of caution and that quiet presence that reminded him he wasn't completely alone.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and willing the darkness to quiet. But the silence didn't bring peace. Instead, it brought the whispers.
"You don't need her," the darkness purred. "You never did. She was holding you back, keeping you from claiming the power that is yours. Look at you now, how much stronger you've become. Don't you feel it? The raw energy that courses through you... It's yours, Dorian. Stop fighting it."
His breath hitched, his chest tightening as the words echoed in his mind. They were not unfamiliar. He had heard them before, during the most intense moments of his magical rituals, but they had always been faint, easy to ignore. Now they were louder, clearer. Tempting.
"You are the last heir of the Selwyn bloodline, the legacy of Salazar Slytherin runs through your veins. Embrace it."
Dorian clenched his fists, willing the whispers to stop, but they only grew louder, feeding on the growing emptiness inside him. He could feel it creeping into his thoughts, warping his perception of everything around him. Where there had once been moments of clarity, of purpose, now there was only an aching hunger for power, a constant pull toward the magic that had become his only companion.
He stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to escape the confines of the library and the oppressive air that seemed to press down on him more with each passing day. His footsteps echoed in the stone corridors as he wandered aimlessly through Durmstrang's halls, but even the familiar surroundings did little to calm the storm inside him.
The other students had noticed the change in him. He could see it in the way they looked at him, the way they whispered when they thought he wasn't paying attention. But none dared confront him. The fear was palpable, and part of him relished it. He had become a figure of awe and terror within the school, a reputation that once would have satisfied him. Now, it felt hollow. Without Lyra's presence, without her ability to see past the fear and power, there was no one who understood him. No one who could anchor him.
As he passed one of the larger common rooms, he overheard a few students murmuring quietly among themselves. He paused, leaning against the wall just out of sight, listening.
"...he's worse now," one of them said, his voice low and nervous. "Ever since she left, it's like he's different. More dangerous. I've heard the professors are watching him closely now."
"I don't blame them," another replied. "You know what they say about the Selwyn bloodline. It's cursed. I wouldn't be surprised if he's lost control already."
Dorian's jaw tightened. The whispers of his classmates were nothing compared to the whispers inside his own mind, but they stung all the same. He pushed off the wall and continued walking, faster now, as if he could outrun the thoughts spiraling through his head.
He found himself back in his dormitory, though he had no memory of walking there. The room felt suffocating, the shadows longer than usual, as though they were reaching for him. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, and his heart pounded against his ribs. The darkness inside him pulsed, as if it were alive, feeding off his fear and frustration.
Without thinking, Dorian raised his hand and summoned the dark magic within him. It surged forward eagerly, crackling at his fingertips, demanding release. He hadn't intended to summon it, hadn't intended to lose control. But here it was, bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to explode.
He stared at the dark energy swirling around his hand, mesmerized by its power. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and for a moment, he considered letting it loose. Why not? What was holding him back? Lyra was gone. Ingrid was gone. The people who had tried to keep him tethered to some semblance of control were no longer here. What did he have to lose?
But then, a single thought pierced through the chaos.
"Lyra wouldn't want this."
The thought was like ice water, cutting through the haze of power that threatened to consume him. He blinked, his hand trembling as he forced the dark magic back down, back into the depths where it belonged. His breathing steadied, though the effort of suppressing the magic left him exhausted.
Lyra wasn't here, but she was still with him. In his thoughts, in the way she had challenged him to be better, to think beyond power for the sake of power. She had been his anchor, and even in her absence, he could feel her influence.
But it wasn't enough.
With a heavy sigh, Dorian collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on. The darkness inside him was growing stronger, more insistent, and without Lyra, he wasn't sure if he could keep it in check. He missed her—missed her presence, missed the way she could make him see things differently. Without her, he was adrift, and the longer she was gone, the more he feared he was losing himself.
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the whispers that had grown so loud in her absence. Trying to ignore the pull of the darkness that was slowly, but surely, taking control.
And in the quiet of his mind, the darkness whispered one final time.
"You don't need her. You never did."
And for the first time, Dorian wondered if the voice was right.