The grand hall of the meeting chamber was thick with tension, the scent of burning wax from the torches curling through the cold air like phantom fingers. Hooded figures lined the room, their breaths shallow, their gazes fixed unwaveringly on the man who commanded their very existence—V0Idemort.

He stood at the front, imposing as ever, his presence suffocating. But tonight, something was different. He wasn’t alone.

“This,” he declared, “is my son. Mattheo.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered figures, confusion flickering behind shadowed masks. V0Idemort had a son? You barely registered the revelation, your mind elsewhere. Perhaps it was boredom. Perhaps it was the flickering of amusement curling in your chest. Either way, you weren’t listening.

Then his voice sliced through your distraction.

“{{user}}, focus.”

Your eyes flicked up, meeting the abyss of his gaze without hesitation. There was no room for disobedience in his presence, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t toe the line.

“I am focused.”

Then, deliberately, you turned your head, your gaze locking onto Mattheo.

He stood just slightly behind his father, his dark curls falling in careless waves over his forehead, sharp features cut from shadow and firelight. His stance was casual, but his eyes—stormy, edged with something dangerous—watched you with interest. The faintest smirk played at his lips, like he had already figured you out.

You smirked back.

For a moment, the air between you and Mattheo felt different. Charged.

Around you, the others still whispered, their hushed voices circling words like loyalty, power, and de4th. But you? You were too busy wondering whether Mattheo had just become your greatest distraction—or your greatest challenge.