The anticipation for the Death Valley Tournament had reached a fever pitch. Durmstrang's stone corridors buzzed with hushed whispers and flickering candlelight as students speculated about the ancient contest. For days, the school seemed to move in a different rhythm—uneasy, expectant, and electric with a tension Dorian could almost taste.
Dorian stood in the empty library, gazing out the frost-covered windows into the darkened landscape beyond. The tournament's announcement had stirred something primal within him—an aching hunger for power that he could no longer deny. He knew the tournament held more than just prestige. The Talisman of Eldros, the ancient prize, promised control, stability, and a direct link to the ancient magics he had sought for so long. It could be the key to taming the chaos that roiled within him.
He clenched his fists as the dark whispers in his mind grew louder. The magic inside him was restless, demanding release, testing the edges of his control. Without Lyra's grounding influence, it had become harder to resist. Lyra's absence had created a void in him, one he hadn't been able to fill. The darkness, which she had once helped him manage, now loomed larger, untamed and ravenous.
For weeks, Dorian had been exchanging letters with her, each owl bearing tidings of her struggle with her own dark magic. It was worse than either of them had anticipated. Lyra's letters grew more solemn, her descriptions more urgent. Her aunt, a powerful dark witch, had tried different methods, but the darkness inside her was unpredictable, volatile, and resistant to control.
Dorian turned his gaze from the window and opened her most recent letter again. Her words, written in Lyra's sharp, precise handwriting, felt like a chilling echo of his own internal battle:
Dorian,
I fear my time here will be longer than I first expected. The magic inside me is… evolving, in ways that neither I nor my aunt anticipated. It's consuming more than I imagined—my thoughts, my emotions, my control. There are moments where I lose myself entirely to it, and I fear that I might hurt someone or lose myself completely. My aunt says it's ancient magic, more potent than even she's encountered in all her years.
I don't know how long this will take to resolve, or if I can resolve it at all. Please, be careful at Durmstrang. Be cautious with the darkness. I know it pulls at you, just as it does at me. But we must find a way to master it, or it will consume us both.
Take care of yourself until I return.
—Lyra
Dorian folded the letter and stared at it for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on him. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel the full brunt of his loneliness without her. Lyra had become more than just an ally—she had become an anchor, someone who understood him in a way no one else could. Now, without her, the darkness felt sharper, heavier.
The door to the library creaked open, snapping Dorian out of his thoughts. Matthias Borgin, a fellow Durmstrang student with a penchant for Knockturn Alley dealings, entered the room, his sharp eyes scanning the shelves before landing on Dorian.
"Selwyn," Matthias greeted, nodding in his direction.
"Borgin," Dorian replied, his voice cool but measured.
There was an awkward pause before Matthias spoke again. "I assume you're entering the tournament?"
Dorian gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Of course."
Matthias stepped closer, lowering his voice. "It's dangerous, you know. Not just because of the other competitors. The valley… the creatures… It's more than just a test of magical skill."
"I'm aware," Dorian said, his voice unwavering. He had already heard the rumors. The valley where the tournament was held was notorious for its dark creatures, remnants of ancient magical wars. The terrain itself was known to shift, to change, to trap those who entered unprepared.
Matthias hesitated before speaking again. "Look, I'm not saying this out of concern. I just know people are talking. They know you've been… off lately. Without Lyra here, it's… noticeable."
Dorian's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. He couldn't afford to show weakness now, not with the tournament so close. "I'm more than capable of handling myself."
"Of course," Matthias said quickly, holding up his hands. "Just thought I'd mention it."
With that, Matthias disappeared back into the shadows of the library, leaving Dorian alone once more.
The following days passed in a blur. The tension in the air only grew thicker as students prepared for the tournament. The school buzzed with rumors and speculation, each conversation laced with anxiety and anticipation. Even classes felt different, the professors' lessons laced with warnings about the dangers of the tournament, as if trying to prepare the students for the deadly trial ahead.
It wasn't long before Headmaster Karkaroff called the entire school to an assembly in the grand hall. The hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long, eerie shadows on the stone walls. The students, dressed in their dark Durmstrang robes, whispered amongst themselves, their faces filled with a mix of excitement and dread.
Karkaroff stood at the front, his presence commanding as always, but there was a somberness to his expression that made the room fall silent. He looked older than usual, his pale skin drawn tight over his sharp features.
"Students," Karkaroff began, his voice echoing through the hall, "the Death Valley Tournament is not a mere competition. It is a tradition older than this school itself. A trial by combat, yes, but also a test of will, skill, and survival. Only the strongest wizards emerge victorious, and even then, many do not return the same."
His gaze swept over the room, lingering on the older students. "As many of you know, the valley is treacherous. Dark creatures roam its depths, and the terrain itself shifts and twists, creating traps for the unwary. This is no ordinary test. It is a trial of your very soul."
Karkaroff paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "The winner of the tournament will be granted a prize beyond measure—the Talisman of Eldros, an ancient artifact said to stabilize and enhance a wizard's magic. It has the power to amplify one's abilities, but it also demands great responsibility. The talisman will not bend to the will of the weak."
Dorian's heart raced at the mention of the talisman. This was it—the key to controlling the chaos inside him. If he could win the tournament, the Talisman of Eldros could stabilize his power, granting him the control he desperately needed.
Karkaroff's voice lowered, becoming almost grave. "However, I must warn you all—this tournament has claimed lives before. Many who enter the valley do not return. And those who do… are often changed."
The hall was silent, the weight of Karkaroff's words hanging heavily in the air. Dorian felt the familiar tug of darkness inside him, urging him forward, pushing him toward the tournament, toward the power he craved.
"The tournament will take place in three weeks' time," Karkaroff announced. "In three days, registration will open. Only those who believe they are truly ready should consider entering. This is not a game."
With that, Karkaroff ended the assembly, his final words echoing in Dorian's mind as the students began to shuffle out of the hall. Dorian stayed seated, his thoughts racing. The Talisman of Eldros—it could be the solution to everything. But the tournament itself would be brutal. He would need to be prepared. He would need to win, no matter the cost.
As he rose from his seat, he couldn't shake the feeling that the tournament would change everything.