The golden glow of Olivia’s hair… No, it is a distant fire. Should I fly to its flames? I should not, but I can’t stop myself. It is a huge funeral pyre. Who has died? It is Uncle Jeremy. It is Magister Cornelius, but it can’t be. Please, my Magister is not dead, you are burning him alive! Somebody help! Olivia! Amir! They all are gone… Father turning his back on me, mother mother moth… Moth, that is me. The pyre is for me, let the others go! I have to save them all!

Michail's world swam back into focus through a haze of throbbing pain. The sickly scent of stale sweat and blood lingered in the air as his eyes fluttered open, his vision blurred and unfocused. The world swayed around him, spinning like a grotesque carnival ride, leaving him nauseous and disoriented. He found himself lying on his bed, the coarse woolen blanket scratching against his bruised skin. The flickering candlelight danced upon the walls and ceiling of his room, casting eerie shadows that seemed to breathe with a life of their own.

“Ah, you're finally awake.”

The voice was soft, yet it seemed to slither over Michail's skin. He turned his head to see Joram standing next to the bed with an unsettling smile on his thin lips. What on earth was his mother’s crooked servant doing in his bedroom?

Michail started struggling to sit up only for a wave of dizziness to crash over him, forcing him to collapse back onto the mattress. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, the memory of the weird-smelling rag pressed against his face resurfacing with sickening clarity.

“Easy now,” Joram hushed, his voice akin to the rustling of dry leaves in a graveyard. “You are still weak.”

“What...what is going on?” Michail managed to rasp.

“Oh my, you don’t remember your little adventure, do you?” Joram leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard you were quite an attraction.”

The memories flooded back: Amir drowning his sorrows, the mocking laughter, shattered jugs, fist blows, daggers clashing against his sword... Michail closed his eyes in shame, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. “Amir... is he...?”

“Drink this.” Joram lifted a cup to his lips. “It will help settle your mind.”

The liquid soothed Michail's parched throat and warmed him inside. While Joram’s fingers still lingering against his jaw, everything started to blur.

Death dancing gracefully with the living, my father and mother entwined in an eternal lullaby – an echo of the Silent Ones' dirge. A warrior lost in a tapestry of unspoken regrets; but isn’t it Amir, and Lady Belinda as his wailer? They are wandering through an arboretum of wilted roses, I am following them from a distance, each thorn piercing deeper than the last, drawing forth droplets of blood that turn to rubies upon touching the earth. Uncle Jeremy, where have you gone?

He felt Joram’s fingers rubbing fragrant salve on his back. The tormentingly slow circulating motions on his sore wounds and bruises made them sting, but the cooling salve relieved the pulsating ache. The intimacy of the touch brought a flush to Michail’s cheeks, a heat that seemed to seep beneath his skin and ignite something deep within him.

“Please Joram,” Michail whispered. “Could you tell me, what happened to Amir?”

“Please… I like the word,” Joram smiled. “Especially coming from your lips.”

“Answer me!”

“Oh, I am sure your hard-headed friend is going to be fine”, Joram said with completely different, cold tone. “No thanks to you, though.”

Tears raised in Michail’s eyes. “I failed him.”

“Yes, poor Amir,” Joram purred, a wicked gleam in his eye as he toyed with a stray strand of Michail's hair. “Left to fend for himself amidst a pack of ravenous wolves, all because someone wanted to act like a man, just to faint like a damsel in distress when it all got too much to handle.”

A sickening knot formed in Michail's stomach, his heart writhing within its cage like a trapped beast desperate for escape. The more he thought about it, the less able he was to deny Joram's words – and he despised himself for it.

“How can I ever again look Magister Cornelius in the eye?” he sighed.

“I wouldn’t worry about Cornelius,” Joram said nonchalantly. “However, your mother is another story.”

“Is she mad at me?”

“She was very displeased when she heard that her precious son, the radiant beacon of the Varga lineage, got involved in a common tavern brawl like a peasant.” Joram declared. “But don’t worry, I’ll spare her the details. You wouldn't want her to know how easily you succumbed to your dark urges, now would you?”

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Michail's face burned with humiliation, the heat threatening to consume him from within. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to contain the turmoil raging inside of him. The memory of Amir's anguished cry echoed through his thoughts, a phantom pain that tore at his heart. And it was all his fault. Not only had he let down his friend, but he had also disappointed his magister and his mother. And worst of all, he had acted against his own values – reason, benevolence, and temperance – the values that Magister Cornelius had been patiently helped him to cultivate. Suddenly he felt unbearably vulnerable under Joram's calculating gaze.

“Please leave me now,” Michail whispered. “I need to be alone.”

“As you wish, dear boy.” Joram let his fingers slide along Michail’s back, as he stood up. “Sleep now.” He walked away and closed the door behind him.

Sleep now… sleep now…. something in Joram’s last words, perhaps their tone, was ringing a bell in the back of Michail’s mind.

Amir… please forgive me! I see you are drowning, and it is all my fault. I want to help you but my wings… my wings won’t carry the weight of my sorrows. I am a moth, moth with parchment wings. Olivia why are you following me, can’t you see I failed, all is written on the parchment pages, they need to burn, burn, burn… what did you whisper to my ear, Olivia? My ear is deaf to your kind, you must shout loud and clear. What did you say? That I must not surrender my wings to flames? Or was it my pages? I don’t understand, I must sleep now… Sleep now, Joram says and puts a rag on my face.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Michail snapped. “You were the one who drugged me in the middle of the fight!”

“Well, you were spiraling out of control, and I had no choice but to intervene,” Joram replied smoothly, as he continued to tend to Michail's injuries. His fingers danced over Michail's bruised skin, tracing the contours of his wounds with an unsettling intimacy. “I took the liberty of bringing you back here to recover, since your little tavern brawl left you the worse for wear.”

“I never meant for it to turn into a brawl,” Michail murmured.

“Nonetheless,” Joram continued, his eyes gleaming like a cat's in the dim light, “based on your reckless behavior, your mother has decided that your old magister is no longer fit to guide you. Instead, she has chosen someone else to take up the mantle.”

“What? Who?” Michail gasped, as if slapped on the face.

“I am happy you asked,” Joram smiled. “Actually, she chose… me.”

“Y-you?” Michail stammered, the words catching in his throat like fishhooks.

“Indeed,” Joram replied, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his thin lips. “And I believe we shall make quite a formidable team, you and I.”

The room seemed to freeze, the air thickening with tension and disbelief. Michail's heart stuttered, caught between the icy grip of dread and the smoldering embers of anger. He stared at Joram, searching for some sign of deceit – some indication that this was merely a twisted joke. The thought of Joram, that cunning serpent, assuming the role of his trusted guide was an abomination.

“Impossible,” Michail uttered, his voice choked with emotion. “My mother would never betray Magister Cornelius like that.”

“Ah, but naturally she has your best interests at heart,” Joram insisted, his tone dripping with sinister delight. “She believes that I possess... unique talents that will be of great benefit to you. Under my guidance, you will learn things that Cornelius never dared to explore. Secrets that have been hidden for centuries... waiting to be discovered by someone like you.”

As Joram spoke, Michail felt an odd sensation taking root deep within his chest, its tendrils snaking through his veins and wrapping around his heart like ivy. He had always been unnerved by Joram's presence, repulsed by the darkness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. And yet, there was something undeniably alluring about that very same darkness, a magnetic pull that threatened to drag Michail down into its depths.

“Ah, my dear apprentice, you look absolutely pathetic,” Joram taunted, his voice dripping with venomous delight. He stepped closer, the light casting eerie shadows across his wiry frame. “But fear not; I am here to help you.”

“Help me?” Michail choked out the words, his voice weak and strained. “You're the one who did this to me.”

“Details, details,” Joram replied dismissively, waving his hand in the air. He paused, watching Michail's pain with cold, calculating eyes. “Remember, it is not I who has brought shame upon your mother or left your friend to fend for himself.”

The truth of Joram's words struck Michail like a physical blow, leaving him reeling in their wake. He felt the dark bond between them tighten, the twisted threads of fate weaving them closer together, as if his own heart were being ensnared by Joram's manipulations.

“Enough!” he snapped, instinctively yanking his arm away from Joram's touch. “I need to find Amir and make things right.”

“Always so eager to play the hero,” Joram sighed. “But have you ever wondered, what it would be like to give in to your darker desires? To let someone else take control for once? Think about it: me in control, and you, dear Michail, at my mercy.” He crouched down, bringing his thin lips close to Michail's ear. “A delicious thought, isn’t it?”

“Stop,” Michail warned, a shiver racing down his spine as Joram continued to circle him like a ravenous vulture.

“Ah, but I see a glimmer of interest in your eyes,” Joram observed, leaning in close enough for Michail to feel the chill of his breath against his ear. “You're drawn to the unknown, aren't you? The forbidden and dangerous path less traveled.”

“Get away from me,” Michail growled, attempting to shove Joram aside only to be met with an iron grip around his wrist. “Let go!”

“Make me,” Joram taunted, his eyes filled with a predatory hunger as he tightened his grasp on Michail's arm.

“Fine,” Michail spat, returning Joram's gaze with equal intensity. “Help me then. I need to find out, who is behind the murder of my uncle. I am sure that you have shady networks of your own – use them.”

“What’s the magic word?” Joram asked menacingly, still keeping Michail’s wrists steady.

Michail bit his lip. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please help me, Magister Joram”, Michail said gritting his teeth, just a tiny hint of tremble in his voice.

“That’s more like it, my son,” Joram grinned, letting Michail’s his arms free. “Very well, I will help you. But first, you must rest and regain your strength. A wounded bird cannot soar through the treacherous skies.”

Michail nodded in agreement, hiding his inner turmoil from Joram as best as he could. He would buy himself some time by letting Joram believe to have the upper hand. After getting his strength back, he would make things right.

“Consider your training started,” Joram said. He walked away from the room, leaving Michail alone with his confused emotions.