𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃; ʜᴘ (𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃)

𝟎𝟕𝟔; ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇsᴛ & ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪᴀᴠᴇʟʟɪᴀɴ

THE SCREEN SHOWED, Narcissus, wearing white robes, as he walked through Mother Magic's Temple, late at night.

"Is this what he does when he is gone?" Daphne questioned the same thing most of court what thinking.

Especially Ophiuchus.

Yet for Silas and Elias, they stayed silent.

They already knew this.

The sounds of his footsteps and soft humming bounced off the stone walls, leaving an echo.

Narcissus's imperious eyes gazed at the familiar carvings and artwork laid out around the temple.

"Wait— he can see?!" Draconian exclaimed.

'Yes, he can.' The twins thought. 'Along with many other things only we know.'

Beautiful work made by talented hands, from a time long passed.

The room was bathed in the low glow of silver moonlight.

Narcissus sees his own shadow flickered and danced along the walls and the high ceiling.

Narcissus won't lie.

Playing down his strengths is boring.

The twins knew the power he hold. For they have foreseen the calamity he brings.

Yet they cannot tell a soul, as they are under oath,
by Narcissus... and by Calytrix.

Leaving Ophiuchus in the dark.

A machiavellian, is something Narcissus has always been, since he was a younger.

He arrange people as though he is a florist, anyone can do it if they want, place flowers in a vase, but it takes years of practice to be any good at it, and some people will never be.

"That is a bit disturbing." Someone muttered.

'You don't know the half of it...' Silas thought.

Yet he is good, he is ever so good at what he does. For him, arranging people in such pretty patterns, such displays that always get him what he wants in the end, has always been easy.

The Black's and Malfoy's, don't know if they should be proud or be terrified of him.

People are just so easy to play with.

They do it to themselves really, and it would be a shame not to— exploit such pathetic vulnerabilities.

After all, he can get anyone he wants with a few words, a few empty promises that mean absolutely nothing.

All because promises are like candles, they light the world for a while, and then they're gone, and the world is back to the way it was before.

Narcissus had carved them so carefully from marble, crafted into a true work of art made from all the flowers of the world.

"I'm scared." Barty whispered, as he clung onto Regulus and Evan, who just rolled their eyes.

Yet they were just as scared.

"You damn fucker." A voice called out from behind him.

They had the voice of the wind between the stars that mortals never heard, that rushed and blew and ushered in the beginning and end of time.

Ophelia perked up at the voice.

She recognize it immediately.

Ophiuchus though didn't like them already.