Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 13. Fights of the Round Table

The early November sun was high and bright, casting the French Quarter in almost deceptive cheerfulness as Solomon led Jacques and Alex to their destination. With some apologies, they had sent Marcus on a stroll through the quarter, planning to pick him up later, after the meeting was over. He wasn’t happy but understood the reasoning.

Ahead of them was a building Jacques wouldn’t have given a second glance if not for the strange silence surrounding it and the two massive guys dressed in black suits standing in its front. Grand columns flanked a wide entrance, the chipped white plaster hinting at former glory. Time had worn its edges, though a heavy door stood resolute, its thick coat of green paint flacking. Jacques wondered briefy if, in there, he‘d find an old piano and they play it hot, but stopped himself before bursting into song. This ain’t the musical episode. But building and door definitely looked like they could have seen their heyday during prohibition.

“Looks fancy,” Alex muttered, his voice low. He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning an ease Jacques saw right through.

“It suits the purpose,” Solomon said, not slowing his pace until they reached the door. Alex raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. Jacques noticed how tense and focused Solomon looked.

“Please,” Solomon turned to face them both. His form shifted, as though trying to fill their entire vision, and his deep voice held a weight of authority neither young man dared challenge. “This is not a room for mistakes. Concentrate. Let your words serve purpose, or, better yet, let them remain unspoken.”

Jacques nodded stiffly, nerves flooding his stomach like molten lead. Alex just tilted his head—his unease bubbling up despite himself. Just residual adrenaline, he thought. Nothing more.

Solomon didn’t wait for further responses. He turned, nodded, and one of the guys in suits pushed the heavy door open for them.

The old ballroom was grand, yet it had a haunted quality, as though it had been left to time and ghosts alike. High arched windows framed either side of the room, but their curtains were drawn just enough to let beams of sunlight strike the clean swept floor in uneven patterns. Hanging above it all was a massive chandelier, its crystals glittering where the sunlight struck them, but it sat askew—a subtle imbalance that added to Jacques’s growing sense of unease.

The walls were lined with carvings and intricate plaster designs—curves and curls of delicate craftsmanship cracked with age. The ceiling rose high above them in an ornate dome, painted with darkened frescoes whose details were distant enough to be unsettling. There were four small groups of people standing near the walls, warily eyeing the newcomers and each other. In the center of the room stood a large circular table, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Each chair’s design clashed magnificently with another: one was high-backed and velvet-upholstered, another was plain and wooden. An ornate settee covered in brocade sat like an afterthought. The effect, while unintentional, made the room seem deeply uneven.

And each of those chairs held someone.

Jacques walked behind Solomon, wishing the loud echo of their footsteps didn’t sound like a countdown. All heads had turned toward them—representatives of the factions—some curious, some sharp as knives. The air inside was alive, charged, like a pressure waiting to burst. Jacques kept his gaze low, heart pounding, and stayed close to Alex, who seemed far more captivated by their surroundings than their company.

“Wow. Fancy,” Alex murmured, though there was an edge to his tone this time. His earlier confidence was still visible, but Jacques could tell he was affected, his movements stiffer than before.

Jacques’s stare shifted back to the large table, his eyes catching a striking figure at the far side: Madame Marie.

She was seated, her small hands resting delicately on the gilded armrests of her chair, yet there was a stillness about her that carried weight. Her presence was magnetic yet unassuming, her dark headscarf a stark contrast to the shafts of sunlight spilling across the room. One corner of her mouth curved upward almost imperceptably as their eyes met—the faintest acknowledgment before her gaze passed to Alex and lingered. Whatever she saw there, Jacques couldn’t guess.

“Welcome,” she said softly, her voice rippling through the room like water over stone. “We appreciate you accommodating this meeting on such short notice.”

“Solomon,” she added, rising from her chair with a deliberate grace that made Jacques experience her presence grow even stronger. “Always a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Madame Marie,” Solomon said, bowing and talking with surprising softness Jacques hadn’t heard from him all day. For a brief moment, something passed between the two figures—an undercurrent only they could understand.

Alex, standing next to Jacques, glanced between them and muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Did I miss some significant... thing here?”

Jacques shook his head, feeling out of his depth. “Just... shut up.”

Solomon ignored them as he gestured to the table. “They’re waiting for you.”

Jacques assumed the nearest seat with a quiet, uncomfortable sigh. Their chairs were simple, and a bit smaller. When they looked at the other people on the table, the larger windows were at their back and Jacques had to squint to properly make out their faces. Round table equality my ass, this was classic power play and he did not like the message. Alex cast a glance around before leaning back into his chair. His uneasiness was growing—but he wasn’t about to show it. It felt like a thousand fingers were poking him, but he tried to look relaxed.

The representatives of the factions watched them with intense concentration, as Jacques studied them and the name cards in front of them. The robed Cardinal Samaele Santini from The Order of Saint Venant leaned forward, his pencil-thin smile more disconcerting than kind, as though Jacques and Alex were blasphemies he saved his judgment for. Cecile d’Aubigne of Les Enfants de la Férocité lounged like a predator, her gaze sharp and lingering on both Alex and Jacques. Julia Cortez of Los Filos de Sangre leaned back, twirling a dagger between her fingers like a children’s toy, but her eyes moved between them with wary precision. Papa Yared of the Silent Watchers was silent, his presence almost spectral as he inclined his head toward Alex—a gesture that somehow seems to recognise him.

Jacques felt like prey under their stares, his chest tightening as the silence stretched. Alex, meanwhile, shifted uncomfortably, the warmth in his body persisting. It was stronger now, sharper—and impossible to ignore. His skin prickled, and he began to wonder if this was normal.

“Let us begin,” Solomon said, ignoring the cardinal completely, his voice firm and final. Chairs creaked as attention turned toward Solomon, though the tension in the room remained palpable.

And as the meeting began, Alex tried—and failed—not to shift again, the warmth inside him growing strange and restless.

 

***

 

A strained, unnatural silence settled into the room, the kind that prickles at the edges of the skin. The four factions straightened in their chairs, exchanging glances as Solomon’s unflinching gaze swept over them like the turning of a clock’s hand. He made no overt motion to speak, held no outward authority in his composed form—and yet, they waited for his signal.

To Jacques, it felt like his lungs were filled with sand.

Alex relaxed and leaned further back in his chair, one leg lazily crossed over the other, but his outward posture was a lie. Jacques could tell—there was a tightness to his jaw, a stillness in his foot that wasn’t natural. Alex’s hand drifted to the center of his chest, tightening into a fist once, then loosening. His eyes were alert, watching everyone and everything. Jacques didn’t know what was bothering him—or maybe, more truthfully, he didn’t want to ask.

Finally, Solomon spoke, his tone like cold steel. “We are gathered today to bring clarity. For the benefit of our guests…” He gestured toward Jacques and Alex, as though they were merely furniture in this hostile environment. “…it is only appropriate that you introduce yourselves.”

“However, before we begin, I’d like to provide some background context to ensure Jacques and Alex are on the same page as everyone else.” His gaze lingered sharply on each faction in turn. It was not a request.

“The people gathered here represent groups that are… essential to maintaining the magical heritage and the well-being of the city. Noir Foundation has substantially supported all their good work for quite some time, but we do not interfere with it. At the moment, they all have various reasons to tolerate the others, even though they don‘t always agree in their opinions. Now, please, show who you are—and why you matter.”

Jacques smiled politely and translated in his head—these scumbags all were kept in power by money from the Noir Foundation, making sure that no-one became too powerful and no-one fell behind. Assured mutual destruction, nice. And they all profited handsomely from the truce between them.

“I will speak first.” The words came sharply from the robed figure of Cardinal Samaele Santini. He stood, his white cassock catching the stripe of golden light cutting across the table, though much of it pooled in shadows at his feet. He moved with well practiced, deliberate grace as he addressed Solomon, then the others at the table, and finally turned his cold eyes toward the newcomers.

Jacques found himself shrinking under the Cardinal’s gaze, an icy wave pressing down against his skin. He didn’t want to be there.

The Cardinal folded his hands in front of him. “The Order of Saint Venant,” he said, voice smooth and imperious, “stands resolute. For generations, we have been the Church’s guardians against the corruption of unchecked magic—servants of divine will in a world drowning in blasphemous indulgence. Where others cling to power, we bring purity. Where others sow chaos, we bring control. We do not act for ourselves but for humanity.”

Jacques fought a visible flinch at the way Cardinal Santini’s sharp gaze fixed on him with a flicker of undisguised disdain. It was clear the Cardinal wasn’t addressing the room. He was speaking directly to him.

“And those who would reject this guidance…” the Cardinal continued pointedly, “endanger us all.”

Cecile d’Aubigne laughed under her breath from her corner of the table.

“Ah, Cardinal,” Cecile drawled, leaning against the ornate armrest of her chair. She looked as though Jacques and Alex’s presence amused her, her dark eyes glinting with predatory interest. “It has been some time since I’ve heard a better sermon. How long did you rehearse that one?”

The Cardinal’s lips pressed together so firmly they could have been etched in stone. He ignored Cecile, though Jacques could see his fingers twitch.

At the sound of Cecile’s voice, the muscle in Alex’s jaw tightened. There it was again: that poking, pricking like needles. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his arm as though the very air around her was suffocating him. A strange urge rose in his chest, like a faint pull toward something, though what, he couldn’t quite understand. Was that magic? Something someone was sending toward him? Or—

“By all means, Cecile,” said Papa Yared then, his low, resonant voice rolling over the room like mist. The representative of the Silent Watchers inclined his head toward her, not quite derision but not far from it. “If you are so eager to disrespect, why not tell them what you stand for first? Or perhaps you’d prefer to hide behind the noise.”

A muscle jumped in Cecile’s jaw, but her lips curled into a slow, dark smile. “Hmph. Hide? You insult me, Watcher.”

She rose. Her gaze swept over Jacques first, then shifted to Alex. There was something dark behind her eyes—a faint curling of power reaching out from her figure like an invisible hand. Jacques didn’t feel anything, no sense of pressure or shift, but Alex stiffened.

“The Enfants de la Férocité,” Cecile began well practized, “are the legacy that d’Orvain left to this world, after his ill advised attempt to grab power. We like to believe we have surpassed him in every way.” Pride laced her words as she addressed the room like a self-declared queen. “We do not fear magic. We are magic—its stewards, its keepers, and its rightful arbiters. Where others grovel at the feet of power, we wield it with intention.” Her voice turned softer, almost tasting her next words, her gaze pierced into Alex. “And we recognize potential. True potential.”

Alex didn’t exactly recoil under her stare, but sweat beaded on his forehead, and the heat rippled in his chest again—a faint, swirling warmth that was stronger now, more purposeful. It almost felt like something she was doing. He forced himself not to move, trying to be casual, but Jacques’s concerned glance didn’t miss the faint tremble in Alex’s fingers as he brushed his hands against his thighs beneath the table.

Jacques whispered under his breath, “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Alex cut him off, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”

Solomon interjected and turned to Jacques and Alex, “I’ll explain about d’Orvain after this.”

Then came Julia.

The lithe, fast-talking leader of Los Filos de Sangre shifted casually in her seat and grinned. “I’m not dressing saints or crowning kings,” she said, cutting a stark contrast to Cecile’s air of grandeur. “The Filos don’t hang their entire pride on legacies. Respect,” she said, flicking her dagger absentmindedly in Cecile’s general direction, “but we prefer to let power find itself where it lives naturally.”

Her gaze shifted lazily toward Jacques first, then Alex, locking eyes with neither but measuring both.

“We’re independent. Survivalists. We’re not looking for leaders or holy men. We’re looking for freedom—keeping magic meaningful.” She leaned back again, dagger spinning idly. “Freedom means power in the right hands.”

By the time Papa Yared gave his solemn, cryptic speech about… well, something about an ancient cataclysm, watching and guarding, Jacques had stopped paying attention. His focus shifted entirely to Alex. His friend, his insecure, traumatized friend, was not fine. Jacques knew Alex too well by now not to notice the tension in his frame, the way his hands refused to settle, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was trying too hard to look normal.

Halfway through, the faintest blue shimmer flickered across Alex’s hand.

“Alex—”

“I said I’m fine,” Alex hissed. But his voice betrayed him this time. It wasn’t fine. It was building.

A chill crawled down Jacques’ back as quiet settled in the room.

 

***

 

The quiet didn’t last long.

The golden sunlight streaming through the ballroom windows struck an almost serene contrast to the tension wrapping itself tighter and tighter around the room. Solomon stood at the edge of the table, steady and poised, taking in the factions and the two boys at the center of the meeting. His voice was calm, deliberate, but the weight of his words was unbearable.

“You mentioned d’Orvain, the Necromancer. That means we must talk about the elephant in the room, Lucien Noir, the fulcrum of an age of magic, who paid a terrible price for his power,” Solomon said. “His recklessness, his ambition, brought catastrophe upon his family. When he defeated d’Orvain after the Battle of New Orleans, he also accidentally killed his own wife and daughter. And so, fearing his own power and the corruption it brought, he made the ultimate sacrifice and vowed never again to let such devastation find a foothold. He split his powers into three parts and sent them out into the ether… seemingly lost. He died soon after, drained, powerless. However, he also left a prophecy. Through an unfortunate indiscretion of one of my relatives, you all know that we have awaited the advent of two unknown, young men… and finally, we have found them.”

Cecile d’Aubigne raised an eyebrow. “Let’s ignore the boys for a moment… I notice a person is missing from that tale… are you actually planning to tell the whole truth this time?”

Solomon stared at her. Did she know? How? Treason? But it didn’t matter anymore.

“Very well, then. The tale at the time was, that his little son, Pierre, had also been killed. But Pierre survived and, on Lucien‘s behalf, was hidden away by my family and the Noir Foundation. None of his descendants knew of their heritage and none manifested any magical abilities… ”

Everyone at the table sat up straighter, looking tense.

“…until now, and so the truth stands before us,” Solomon continued, turning slightly and raising as hand to present Jacques. “Jacques, descendant and heir to Lucien Noir.”

 

***

 

The words hit the room like the toll of a heavy bell. Heads turned fully toward Jacques, and the press of their scrutiny was suffocating. Papa Yared tilted his head thoughtfully, his dark eyes betraying something like curiosity. Julia Cortez, from Los Filos de Sangre, exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers resuming their idle spin of the dagger in her hand. The Cardinal, Santini, thinned his lips into a sharp line.

And then there was Cecile d’Aubigne, who leaned forward, flavoring the balmy air with her poisonous smile.

“So this is the prodigal boy,” she said, her gaze traveling leisurely over Jacques’ form before stopping at his empty sleeve. Her eyes lingered there, making Jacques’s throat tighten. “You would think mighty Lucien’s legacy would come… whole.” She emphasized the last word like a dart thrown precisely at its mark.

Jacques froze. Her words dug deep and they were laced with venom, confirming every doubt he tried not to carry to this room. His body tensed—not with anger, but with shame. He flexed his right hand again, flexing hard enough that his nails bit into his palm, trying to ignore the ghostly ache that surged in the limb that wasn’t there.

“Cecile,” Solomon said evenly, his voice turning hard. “You will show respect.”

“Oh, I am,” she said lightly, her focus narrowing entirely on Jacques. “But I can’t help wondering… What use is a cup if it has no handle?”

“And ignorance,” Madame Marie said, cutting across Cecile’s remark like a blade, “is still ignorance, no matter how charmingly you dress it.”

Looking at Jacques and Alex for a moment, she suddenly frowned and raised a hand for silence.

She studied them, closer this time. The room turned silent.

“I‘m here to see for all of you, impartial,” Madame Marie added with a curious tone, “and there is a thing I noticed just now. Solomon talked about Lucien splitting his powers in three and them being lost, but when I look at these two boys in front of me, I sense all of Lucien‘s powers. Disassembled, broken maybe, but complete within these two. Soul, Body, Mind.”

Solomon had been sure she would spot it and expected these last three words. He paid close attention to everyone‘s reaction.

 

***

 

Jacques exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

But when he glanced at Alex, still sitting beside him, he felt something shift.

“Are you okay?” Jacques asked under his breath.

Alex didn’t respond at first. His head hung slightly, his shoulders trembling as his fingers dug into the table. A faint shimmer of blue light flickered under his skin, climbing up his arms and spreading down his fingers like veins of molten metal. When he finally looked at Jacques, his eyes were wide and full of panic.

“They’ve been…” Alex gasped, shaking his head. “Jacques, I can’t—I can’t stop it.”

 

***

 

In an explosion of blue, the glow erupted outward in streaks of light like wild bolts of lightning, crackling against the table and lashing across the room like an uncontrolled storm. The chandelier swayed violently above as the walls seemed to warp with the sheer heat of Alex’s magic pouring out of him. A deafening CRACK sounded as another blue tendril struck the side of the chandelier, crystals clattering.

“Fools,” Madame Marie hissed, seizing the room’s attention even as Alex trembled in blue light. “You’ve all been probing him, haven’t you? Prodding, testing his power without understanding its strength, circumventing his precarious control.”

Santini’s mouth opened to protest, but Madame Marie’s glare stole the words from his lips. “You’ve triggered this storm yourselves,” she said, her voice full of disdain. “Idiots.”

Jacques staggered and raised his hand as the blue arcs of wild magic lashed across the room. One tendril brushed past him, searing the hem of his shirt and filling the air with the sharp stench of burned fabric.

“Jacques!” Madame Marie barked, her voice cutting through the sound of the storm. “Absorb it. Hug him, quick!”

Jacques froze, wide-eyed. “What?! I can’t—”

“DO IT!” she shouted. “Or we all die here.”

The heat from the magic was unbearable now, but Jacques didn’t think. He threw himself forward, slamming into Alex with all the strength he had. His arms wrapped tightly around Alex’s trembling frame, and blue light poured into him.

It wasn’t a gentle transfer—it burned. Jacques grit his teeth, his knees buckling as the power surged through him like fire running through his veins. His skin should have been burning. His body should have been tearing apart, but it didn’t. It just kept going, the flow of energy finding no resistance as it vanished deeper into him, and pouring out from his severed limb, dissipating with a sharp hiss like steam through a defective pressure valve.

And then, silence. Bits of plaster crumbled from the walls in slow motion. Smoke curled atmospherically in rays of golden sunshine.

Jacques gasped heavily, staring blankly at Alex—barely conscious, but alive. His chest heaved as though the effort of survival itself was almost too much, but he was standing. Heat lingered faintly on his skin. Around them, the ballroom was scorched and cracked. The taste of ash was on his lips and his ears were ringing.

The factions were stunned.

Papa Yared finally broke the silence, his voice almost eager. “Absorption and dissipation of that magnitude… Curious.”

“The question,” Cecile purred, recovering her smile, “is whether this Jacques boy can be a useful container—or is he simply… defective. Broken by his legacy.”

Jacques flinched but remained silent, holding Alex close. There was no point in answering her—not now.

Madame Marie stepped forward calmly. “It’s true,” she said, her voice measured. “Jacques cannot wield the magic he absorbs. By every understanding we have, his lack of symmetry is irreparable. He will never be like Lucien.”

Her words landed like heavy blows. Jacques looked up, his mouth open—staring at her as though she’d sunk the knife in with her own hand.

Then her gaze flicked down, something unspoken behind her calm expression. “But as I’ve often said,” she continued coolly, “there is more in this world than symmetry.” She turned back to the factions, her tone sharpening. “The two of them are more than enough to shift the tides. What they become… that remains to be seen.”

 

***

 

Jacques’s knees sagged as he struggled to keep Alex upright, carefully steadying him on his seat until he stayed upright by himself again. His fingers trembled, his chest heaved with erratic breaths, and the phantom heat of Alex’s outburst still sat hot against his skin like an afterimage of fire. For what seemed like an eternity, the room was silent except for Jacques’s rasping breaths and the faint creak of the chandelier swaying overhead.

He looked at Alex—a thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, his face slack in a moment of vulnerability. The glow that had overtaken Alex’s body moments before was utterly absent now, swept away like ash in the wind. Jacques swallowed thickly, trying to quench the pounding of his heart.

Behind him, the tension in the room shifted—the energy palpable, sharp as a blade.

“Well. That was… dramatic,” Cecile’s voice sliced through the quiet. Jacques stiffened at the sound—the cold, almost playful savor she laced into those words. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her lips curling into a lazy smile. “If nothing else, the two of you put on a rather stunning display.”

“Display?” Cardinal Santini’s voice rang with irritation. His hand gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly that the fabric creaked under his fingers. “That incident could have leveled this building, Cecile. Their lack of control is not entertaining.”

“At least we can guess where all that terrifying power came from that runs through Maison Noir now,” Julia interjected, getting surprised looks from the others.

“Control comes with practice,” Cecile replied casually, though her sharp gaze flicked toward Jacques and Alex with something akin to hunger. “And trust me, Cardinal—it’s not his lack of control that concerns me.”

The Cardinal’s expression soured further. He began to speak again, but Madame Marie, still standing like a sentinel, cut him off with a sharp, heavy word.

“Please moderate your tone!”

Her voice carried softly through the wreckage of the room, and yet it silenced the factions in an instant. She stepped forward, her calm gaze sweeping over Alex, then Jacques, and finally the others. Her presence was unwavering—composed yet thrumming with authority.

“My deepest thanks, of course, for provoking something you did not understand,” she said, bitterness laced just under the surface of her otherwise polite tone. “This was not only reckless—it was pointless.”

Santini’s face hardened. “We merely sought to—”

“What you sought,” she interrupted coldly, glaring his way, “was leverage. You tested these boys without asking permission, like you would a tool or a weapon.”

Jacques turned slightly, startled by the weight in her voice. For a flicker of a second, she looked at him—not with pity, not with sympathy, but with something sharper than either of those.

Her expression softened slightly as she gestured toward him. “And now you see what Lucien’s legacy has wrought: not strength, not certainty, but two walking contradictions—a storm and its counterweight, broken yet extraordinary. Entirely unpredictable.”

Cecile’s smile widened slightly, though she didn’t speak.

“This one,” Madame Marie continued, her attention sliding to Jacques fully now, her tone even but pointed, “bears the mark of Lucien’s line… but his body reflects the opposite of that power. He cannot use what he takes—he cannot shape it. The hand given by magic offers nothing to him.”

Jacques recoiled slightly at her words as though stung by their bluntness. He stared down at his lap, his right hand clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles burned. Madame Marie’s eyes flicked to his empty sleeve, and her gaze lingered there for a heartbeat too long.

“The loss,” she said quietly, her voice almost gentle now, “was not just flesh. It silenced any future he might have had with wielding magic.”

Her words landed with the weight of a hammer. Jacques clenched his jaw, refusing to let the rising, acrid shame spill from his mouth. He knew. He’d known for years. But hearing it proclaimed—stated aloud in this room full of people who looked at him like a curiosity or a mistake—dug into his chest like a blade.

From across the table, Cecile shifted, her expression turning thoughtful, though Jacques caught the faint amusement in her gaze. “Silence isn’t always so bad, though. A leaking container doesn’t need to shout.”

Julia snorted softly, though there was no humor in it. “A leaking container’s about as useful as a cauldron with no fire under it.”

“You talk about the leaking boy that quenches the fire? Fine.” Cecile’s voice came soft and slow, though her gaze had turned calculating as she studied Jacques. “But the boy who burned this room…” She tilted her head toward Alex, still and unresponsive. “…that’s fire worth feeding.”

Jacques felt something flare in his chest—anger, maybe, though he didn’t dare voice it. Instead, he straightened his shoulders subtly, clutching Alex just a little tighter.

For the first time in the long, miserable meeting, Jacques found his voice. “He’s not a fire for you to use,” he muttered low, his words shaky but firm. “He’s—he’s not for any of you.”

Cecile’s lips twitched faintly, amused.

“You’re starting to grow some spine after all,” she said simply, and that was all.

While all others dismissed Jacques, the representative of the Watcher looked thoughtful at him, obviously deep in thought.

Madame Marie noticed, asking him “Papa Yared, please share your thoughts with us.”

“Even a broken vessel can be a useful tool… Say Cecile, while we’ve got our question about Maison Noir answered, wasn’t our second mystery that your business was ´attacked´ yesterday by someone ´viciously destroying´ your precious ´mood enhancer´ magic? Maybe it was just … dissipated?”

All eyes immediately zeroed in on Jacques, as he turned a very deep shade of red.

Julia burst out laughing, “Ah, Mr. Broken took a big leak against your leg…“

“Shit,” was all Cecile said. You could see her beginning to seethe as she fixed her eyes on Jacques. “Do you moron have any idea how much power went into establishing that spell?” She moved like a crouching tiger, slowly closing the distance. “Do you have any idea how much time and money we invested?” Her fingers started to bristle with magic as she stopped right in front of Jacques. “You! I’ll make you pay for this!“ She screeched as she pounced on him with stretched out arms. From somewhere else, a bright arc of magic shot down and connected with him.

It happened almost too fast to follow. Quick football reflexes went into action and a loud “SLAP” reached their ears as they saw Cecile flying and sliding over the floor. The open hand on Jacques’ stretched out arm already gripped a shimmering, hissing band of bristling magic. He yanked hard and a man from Cecile‘s small delegation stumbled forward, screaming in agony. Jacques pulled and pulled… determination hardening his face. The man kept screaming at the top of his lungs, thrashing around, the arc losing brilliance fast.

“Enough!” Solomon shouted. The power of his command made Jacques stumble and lose his grip on the magic, which immediately died. Echos of the command hung in the room. Quickly, the other members of Cecile‘s delegation took the stumbling, whimpering man away, while Cecile struggled upright again with the darkening imprint of a hand on her check.

Jacques just stared and pointed at her. “Bitch, just… don‘t.” With that, he brushed some imaginary dust from his arm and glowered at Solomon.

“Very well!” Madame Marie clapped her hands twice. “This little issue seems to be cleared up then…,” Madame Marie stepped forward smoothly, cutting the other factions’ shocked murmurs short. Her presence seemed impossibly steady, even after the chaos they’d just experienced. She gestured to Jacques and Alex together as she addressed the room as a whole.

“Whatever you choose to believe about these two,” she said, her voice measured and purposeful, “realize this: together, they possess a power none of you can yet fathom. But even I,” she added,“see no clear path for Jacques. No way for him to learn control. No way he can wield what he takes in. But take he can.”

Her eyes flicked faintly toward Jacques again. He couldn’t tell if it was pity or something else entirely. In all this, there was something she wasn’t saying. A shiver crawled up his spine, even as the words settled over him like another unwanted weight.

“This path,” she said finally, taking her seat again, “is one you must all watch carefully. Because it is nothing less than destiny—fractured though it may be.”

The factions exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves, the weight of her words hanging.

 

***

 

The air in the ballroom remained oppressively thick as the factions broke out into murmurs again, some louder than others. The aftermath of Alex’s explosive outburst—Jacques’ impossible absorption of that raw, untempered magic and his casual deflection of Cecile‘s attack—left all of them shaken in different ways. Uneven sunlight pooled through the shredded curtains, glinting on the still-swinging chandelier. Scorched marks on the walls and floor bore quiet witness to the storm that had just passed.

Julia leaned back in her chair, balancing her dagger on the tip of her finger. “So,” she said at last, exhaling through her nose. “What’s the plan here? You’re all thinking it—I can see it written on your self-righteous faces.” She flicked her eyes toward Santini and Cecile, clearly entertained by their discomfort. “We can pretend this little explosion didn’t happen, sure. Or we can teach the two of them not to blow up whatever room they’re standing in next time.”

Cecile smirked. “How pragmatic of you, Julia. You managed that without a single jab about the Church’s lack of finesse.”

“Give me a minute. I’m warming up,” Julia replied coolly, twirling the dagger.

Santini slammed his hand down on the table, silencing the simmering tension between the two. His expression remained stern, his gaze fixed on Solomon and Madame Marie. “If these boys are to survive, there is no alternative. They must learn the nature of their power. And more importantly,” he said, glancing disdainfully toward Alex’s slumped form in Jacques’ grasp, “they must learn control.”

Papa Yared hummed thoughtfully before speaking. “Learning control may not be enough,” he said quietly. His gaze drifted across the shattered room. “For power this raw, control is a temporary solution. They must understand all facets of their magic—the depths and breadth of it—or that control will fail when it’s needed most.”

For once, Cardinal Santini gave a slight nod of agreement. “Agreed,” he said, folding his hands together and leaning forward. “This is not a condition we can allow to remain untamed. This fire doesn’t just threaten them; it threatens the rest of us.” His cold, calculating eyes studied Alex and Jacques again, as if they were problems to be solved.

Julia snorted. “Practical, but I’m not volunteering for the ‘taming.’ That’s not in our job description.”

“To teach them magic,” Cecile said, her voice slow and measured, “requires someone who understands it better than any of us. And more importantly, someone who has no illusions about the mess these two represent.”

Her dark eyes turned toward Madame Marie.

The room grew still once more.

Madame Marie sat with perfect calm, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression, as ever, gave away nothing.

“Madame Marie,” Cecile continued, sounding almost amused, “surely you don’t intend to let them stumble through this storm blind? You are, after all, already… uniquely involved.”

“Proximity does not make obligation,” Marie replied evenly. Her dark eyes swept over Cecile, pausing briefly on Santini, and finally coming to rest on Solomon. “However,” she added after a pause, “you are correct. These two cannot continue this way. Without proper training, I hardly expect them to survive. And what about us then? When the dust settles, all gloves will come off.”

She let that hang in the air, though the implications were as clear as ice.

“Then you’ll take them?” Julia asked, clearly less invested in the politics than in resolving the situation. She twirled her dagger absently. “Teach them what they need to know? Keep them alive? ‘Cause that sounds like it’s right up your alley.”

Finally, Marie tilted her head. “I will, if all agree.”

The room stirred at her admission, so Marie raised a hand lightly, silencing the factions before they could press her further.

“But let me be very clear,” she said. Her voice dropped into something cool and sharp, like a blade glinting in winter light. “If you give them to me, I will not remain neutral. You have seen for yourselves the forces at work here—the vulnerability, the rawness. It is beyond argument now that they are as unprepared for this world as we are for them.”

Her voice softened slightly, but her tone remained unyielding. “While they are under my care, I will not bow to your agendas. Nor will I allow harm to come to them under the guise of education or sacrifice. I will do what is best for the boys and only for the boys.” Her eyes moved between the Cardinal, Cecile, Julia, and the Watcher. “Do you understand?”

Each of them reacted differently. Santini grimaced but said nothing; Cecile simply smiled, though there was something calculating in the tilt of her expression. Yared nodded quietly in acknowledgment, while Julia shrugged, clearly indifferent to anything beyond practical solutions.

Solomon stood, his towering presence commanding the room. “Then the matter is decided,” he said, breaking the moment of tension. “They will learn. And if Madame Marie accepts this duty, we will leave them in her hands.”

He nodded toward her, the barest flicker of something private passing between them.

 

***

 

The meeting ended shortly after. All the factions‘ eyes lingered on Jacques and Alex as they started to leave, a tense silence trailing behind them like cold threads in the wind. Jacques held Alex upright as best he could until Solomon stepped forward, supporting Alex’s weight.

“Come,” Madame Marie said, her voice softer now but still firm. “We’ll leave as we came in.”

Jacques trailed after her, Solomon and Alex as they exited the ruined ballroom, his steps heavy. The lingering heat of Alex’s outburst had long since faded, and now Jacques felt cold. Empty. Madame Marie’s earlier words replayed in his mind: He is irreparable. No way forward.

They reached the door, stepping out into the humid, sunlit alley in front the house. The quiet after the storm was unbearable. Jacques kept his head down, as though looking Marie or Solomon in the eye would reopen the wound of her declaration.

As Solomon moved ahead, leading a more and more steady Alex, Madame Marie paused, turning to Jacques.

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable, and dropped her voice into a near-whisper. “Jacques.”

He looked at her, his jaw clenching.

“As always, I told the truth,” she said gently, her dark eyes piercing straight through him. Her words were soft, deliberate. “I do not see the way ahead for you.”

Jacques flinched at the admission, though he didn’t look away.

“But…” She exhaled faintly, a nearly imperceptible smile curling at the edges of her lips. “I know that you have the potential to find the way.”

Jacques blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “How?” he whispered. His voice was strained, almost pleading. “If there’s nothing there—if I’m—”

She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, silencing him. “That’s not for me to answer, Jacques. But trust me… It is there, whatever it is. Maybe you‘ll see it once you learn about magic.”

With that, she withdrew her hand, continuing forward to follow Solomon and Alex. For a moment, Jacques remained rooted in place, staring at the ground. Her words refused to settle—the weight of them both easier and harder to bear than he’d expected.

Solomon broke the awkward tension after he had another look at Alex, observing his still somewhat unsteady gait. “I think this young man needs a coffee and some sugar... Beignets at Café du Monde, anyone? Let’s call your friend Marcus and meet up with him there.”

Madame Marie gave Solomon a nod, and he smiled. Everything went according to plan. It’s good to make your plans with an oracle at hand.

 

***

 

“What was that between Solomon and Jacques?” Cecile turned to the others, rubbing the still visible outline of Jacques’ hand on her cheek. “Solomon has no magic.”

“And yet, we could all feel the broad resonances of magic,” Papa Yared confirmed the obvious.

“Obedience, a spell or curse,” the Cardinal mused, “but Solomon didn’t look as if he triggered it intentionally. It felt… not sharp enough, washed out, old… maybe generational. Still powerful though.”

“Of course you‘d know about magic spells for obedience…” Julia snorted.

“Esteemed colleagues,” Cecile gave them all a meaningful look. “I think we all have lots to think about. Have a good day.”