The days were growing shorter, and the air at Durmstrang had become colder, sharper, filled with the heavy anticipation of the upcoming Death Valley Tournament. Dorian could feel the excitement mixed with fear from every student around him, but for him, it was something more—this was the culmination of everything he had been working toward. The Talisman of Eldros wasn't just a prize; it was the key to unlocking his true potential. It was what would make him unstoppable.
The letter from Lyra weighed on him. Her warning about the tournament echoed in his mind, but at the same time, the allure of victory overshadowed any doubts he had. If anything, her absence was making the dark whispers inside him louder, more insistent, as if the magic itself was urging him to take the plunge.
And plunge he would.
The morning after receiving her letter, Dorian found himself back in the library, pouring over tomes of forbidden magic, hunting for the last pieces of information that would give him an edge in the valley. He had already found knowledge of the wraiths, those terrifying creatures of shadow that fed on magic. If he could bind them to his will, they would be invaluable in the tournament.
His focus was interrupted by a voice from behind.
"You're studying wraiths now?"
Dorian turned sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. Matthias Borgin stood there, leaning casually against the bookshelf, his eyes glittering with curiosity and just a hint of malice.
Dorian narrowed his eyes, keeping his voice measured. "What's it to you, Borgin?"
Matthias smirked, his gaze flickering down to the book Dorian had been studying. "The Death Valley Tournament. Everyone's preparing. Thought I'd check in, see what our resident dark prodigy is up to."
Dorian remained silent, waiting for Matthias to get to the point.
Matthias sighed, his smirk fading into something more serious. "Look, Selwyn. We both know this tournament is more than just a competition. It's dangerous—deadly. You're not the only one looking into dark creatures or forbidden magic. Others are preparing too. I'm just saying, don't underestimate anyone."
Dorian met his gaze, his stormy gray eyes cold and unyielding. "I don't."
Matthias nodded, pushing himself off the shelf and turning to leave. But before he stepped away, he glanced back. "Just remember—there's always someone watching."
With that cryptic remark, Matthias disappeared into the rows of shelves, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts once more. The tension in the air was thick, and everyone was looking out for themselves. Trust was a commodity no one could afford in a place like Durmstrang, especially now.
But Dorian didn't need trust. He needed power.
That evening, Durmstrang's great hall was more subdued than usual, the usual noise and banter dulled by the looming tournament. Students sat in hushed groups, speaking in low voices, their conversations filled with speculation about the creatures that lurked in the valley, the strategies they would use, and, most of all, the prize.
Dorian sat alone at his table, his eyes scanning the room. He could see the hunger in some of the faces—Matthias, Lukas Grimmel, and several others who had the ambition but maybe not the raw power to see it through. They would all be competing, but Dorian didn't care about them. They were nothing more than obstacles. In the end, only the strongest would prevail.
His thoughts drifted back to Lyra. It had been weeks since she had left, and he could feel the absence of her stabilizing influence. Without her, the dark magic that coursed through him had become more aggressive, more demanding. He had spent years honing his control, mastering the dark arts, but without that anchor, he could feel the edges of his control fraying. The whispers were louder at night, the magic pulling him toward darker thoughts, darker actions.
But it didn't matter now. He would control it. He had to.
The doors to the great hall creaked open, and the headmaster, Karkaroff, strode in with an air of authority. The conversations in the room died down as he approached the front of the hall, his presence commanding attention.
"Students," Karkaroff began, his voice carrying throughout the room, "as you know, the Death Valley Tournament is fast approaching. Participation is voluntary, but I would advise you all to carefully consider the risks involved. This is no ordinary tournament. The valley is filled with dangers—creatures that will not hesitate to kill, traps that will ensnare the unprepared, and, of course, the competition itself."
A murmur passed through the students, but Karkaroff raised a hand to silence it.
"The prize, however, is worth the risk," he continued, his eyes sweeping over the students. "The Talisman of Eldros is an ancient artifact of immense power. It is said to grant the bearer abilities beyond normal magical limits—stability for those who struggle with uncontrolled magic, strength for those who seek it, and the power to bend dark forces to your will."
Dorian's heart quickened at the mention of the talisman. He had heard of it before, but hearing Karkaroff confirm its existence made it real. This was it. This was what he needed.
Karkaroff's voice grew more serious. "But be warned—many have entered the valley in the past, and not all have returned. The valley has a will of its own, and those who enter do so at their own peril. Choose wisely."
With that, Karkaroff turned and exited the hall, leaving the students in a hushed silence. The weight of his words hung over them, a reminder of just how deadly the tournament would be.
Dorian's mind was racing. The talisman could be his. It would be his. But he needed to prepare. More than ever, he needed to push himself to the limit.
The days passed in a blur of preparation. Dorian spent hours in the library, studying every spell, every creature, and every piece of ancient magic he could find. He practiced relentlessly, honing his skills, pushing the boundaries of what he thought possible. The dark magic inside him pulsed with anticipation, as if it knew that soon, it would be unleashed in a way it never had before.
But something else lingered in the back of his mind—Lyra's absence. He hadn't received another letter from her, and the silence was unsettling. He missed her, though he would never admit it out loud. She had been his only friend, the only one who had ever understood him, and without her, the weight of the darkness felt heavier.
One evening, as Dorian practiced in one of Durmstrang's abandoned classrooms, he felt the magic inside him surge uncontrollably. He tried to rein it in, but it was stronger than usual, almost like it was fighting back. For a moment, he saw something in the shadows—something dark and twisted, a manifestation of the power he wielded.
And then it was gone, leaving him breathless, his heart pounding.
He sank to the floor, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. The tournament was drawing closer, and with it, the dark magic inside him was growing more volatile. He needed to control it, or it would consume him.
But as he sat there, catching his breath, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him—something from the shadows.
Finally, the day arrived. The announcement was made that participants would need to register for the tournament the following day. The Death Valley Tournament was no longer just a distant event—it was here.
Dorian stood in his dorm room, staring at the small piece of parchment in his hand. It was the registration form, simple and unassuming. But to him, it represented everything.
He filled it out, his quill scratching across the page with precision. His name was now in the running. Soon, he would step into the valley, face the dangers within, and claim the talisman.
But deep down, he knew that once he entered the valley, there would be no turning back.
The darkness inside him stirred, whispering promises of power, victory, and domination.
Dorian smiled.
He was ready.