The days following the assembly passed in a blur of anticipation and tension. The announcement of the Death Valley Tournament had shaken the very foundation of Durmstrang, and everywhere Dorian turned, students whispered about the dangerous competition. Most were excited, some were terrified, but a palpable sense of unease hung over the school like a dark cloud.
Dorian could feel it in every corner—an undercurrent of fear and greed, ambition and desperation. Students who had once kept their ambitions hidden were now making power plays, alliances were forming in secret, and the darker edges of Durmstrang's reputation were beginning to show. Some students, like Matthias Borgin, spoke of forming strategic groups to increase their chances of survival. Others believed it was every man for himself.
But for Dorian, none of that mattered. His focus was singular. The Talisman of Eldros was all that occupied his thoughts. The whispers of the ancient artifact, combined with the restless magic coursing through him, had set his mind on one clear goal: he had to win. The talisman would stabilize his powers, grant him the control he had been losing, and most importantly, put him leagues above anyone else at Durmstrang—and beyond.
As he paced his dorm room late one night, Dorian's thoughts wandered back to Lyra. The void left by her absence had been growing larger every day. The letters she sent were fewer now, each one more strained than the last. She had promised to return, but the uncertainty in her words left Dorian uneasy. He missed her presence—missed the way she could quiet the chaotic whispers inside him. Without her, the dark magic that had once been a tool now felt like a looming threat, a force slowly taking over his very being.
Lyra had been his anchor, and now, without her, the pull of the darkness was harder to resist. He wondered, just for a moment, if she would even recognize him when she came back.
But there was no time for such thoughts. He had to prepare. The tournament was weeks away, but that wasn't nearly enough time to train for what lay ahead. He knew the valley would be filled with dark creatures, magical traps, and wizards just as hungry for power as he was. He needed to be at his best—stronger, faster, and sharper than ever before.
A few days after Karkaroff's speech, the halls of Durmstrang were even more restless. As Dorian walked through the corridors, students gave him sidelong glances, murmuring as he passed. He had become a figure of both fear and fascination at the school, and with the tournament looming, those around him were on edge. Some students had outright admitted they wouldn't be entering, unwilling to risk their lives for glory. But others—those with ambition, or something darker—were preparing just as Dorian was.
It wasn't long before Dorian began to hear the rumors.
"Have you heard what happened?" a student muttered to a group huddled near one of the common areas as Dorian passed by. "Another death. They found Erik's body."
Dorian paused, his interest piqued, though he kept his face indifferent. Erik had been the first student to find Kara's body after her mysterious death, and Dorian hadn't heard much from him since. The coincidence felt too strange to ignore.
"Found him near the dungeons," another student whispered. "Same as Kara. Dark magic involved."
"Do they know who did it?" someone else asked.
"No idea," came the reply. "But the professors are investigating. There's talk that whoever's responsible for Kara's death is behind this too."
Dorian frowned. Erik's death—like Kara's—seemed calculated, but he couldn't fathom who would have had reason to kill him. Whoever was behind it was methodical and, more importantly, skilled enough to avoid suspicion.
Still, there was a part of Dorian that felt relieved. He and Lyra hadn't been implicated in Kara's death, and now with Erik's death, suspicion seemed to be shifting elsewhere. But that didn't mean things were safe. If whoever was responsible had a plan, Dorian needed to be ahead of it. He couldn't afford distractions with the tournament approaching.
As Dorian rounded the corner to his classroom, the whispers continued to follow him, but his mind was already elsewhere. The death of another student was unsettling, but it was far from his primary concern. The tournament was everything, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to step up his preparations.
Later that evening, Dorian made his way to the library, its vast shelves of ancient tomes offering the knowledge he desperately needed. He had spent many nights here, diving deep into the dark arts, but tonight was different. Tonight, his mind was set on finding something that would give him an edge in the tournament—something to ensure his victory.
The library was almost empty when he arrived, save for a few students who seemed just as focused on their own research. Dorian moved with purpose, his fingers trailing along the spines of old, leather-bound books as he searched for something specific. A grimoire, perhaps. A spell to bind dark creatures or control the twisted forces of the valley.
He finally found what he was looking for—a tome bound in cracked black leather, its title barely legible after years of wear. The Shadows of Eldros, it read. Dorian pulled it from the shelf and flipped through its pages. His heart quickened as he found a chapter on the valley's creatures—nightmarish beings of darkness and shadow that had roamed the valley for centuries.
One passage caught his attention: The wraiths of the valley are drawn to power, feeding off magic that is not their own. They can be bound, but only to those who wield the darkest of arts.
Dorian's mind raced. If he could find a way to control these wraiths, to use them against the other competitors, it would give him an unprecedented advantage. He would not just survive the valley—he would dominate it.
But as Dorian absorbed the information, the dark whispers in his mind grew louder. The magic inside him seemed to pulse with approval, urging him to pursue the idea further, to dive deeper into the ancient, forbidden magics that had always called to him.
He had no choice. He would need to master this magic if he was to claim the Talisman of Eldros and, with it, his destiny.
As Dorian walked back to his dorm later that night, the moon hung low over Durmstrang's stone towers, casting long shadows across the grounds. His thoughts were consumed by the tournament, the wraiths, and the power that awaited him. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor as he approached his door.
He glanced up just in time to see a dark figure slip a letter under his door. His wand was out in an instant, ready to defend himself, but the figure vanished into the shadows before Dorian could react. He bent down to pick up the letter, his heart pounding.
There was no name on the envelope, but the handwriting was unmistakable—it was from Lyra.
He tore it open, his eyes scanning the page.
Dorian,
I know it's been longer than I promised. The magic is worse than I thought. My aunt is trying everything, but nothing seems to work. I feel like I'm slipping further away every day. I don't know when I'll be able to return. I'm sorry.
Please be careful with the tournament. I know what you're thinking, and I know how much you want to win, but the valley is dangerous. More dangerous than you realize. I've heard things, even here. You can't trust anyone there. The creatures… the magic… it's all deadly. Promise me you'll stay safe.
—Lyra
Dorian stared at the letter for a long moment, a mix of emotions swirling inside him. The darkness inside him stirred restlessly, but Lyra's words, even from afar, still had a calming effect on him. But how long could he hold on to that?
She was right about one thing—he couldn't trust anyone in the tournament. But what she didn't understand was that he couldn't afford to be careful. He had to win. He had to claim the Talisman. And if that meant embracing the darkness even further, so be it.
With the letter still clutched in his hand, Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The tournament was coming, and when it did, he would be ready.
No matter the cost.