In the months since he had come to Novus, the Scarab had become his home, despite how unlikely it had seemed at first. His scarab tattoo had healed over, almost hidden by the tufts of fur on his chest, peeking out just enough for a glimpse to be caught -- generally by those he had just caught breaking the rules of the Scarab, who hadn’t realized he was an employee until he was right beside them and ushering them out. It was enough for the boy -- he hadn’t lost control, even, not enough for it to be noticeable, or at least he hoped his few slip-ups had gone unnoticed.

They’d generally been the drunken patrons he’d escorted outside, anyways -- they likely wouldn’t have noticed, not with the amount of alcohol they’d generally imbibed, and if they noticed the way his markings began to spark and glow whenever his magic came to life, well -- that was easily explained away as part of the Scarab show, wasn’t it?  

And if some of those patrons suddenly grew a bit more agreeable in being lead outside, well -- he did tower above most of them, after all, despite the fact he’d prefer not to get into a brawl in the middle of the floor.

Anyways -- the Scarab had become home for the boy, even if the memories of his old home still clung to his mind, even if he still awoke every morning drenched in sweat from the nightmares. Enough so that when he wandered into the kitchens that morning to steal one of the loaves of bread that August had brought back, dark shadows stamped beneath his eyes from another sleepless night, he barely even registered that Vikander was standing there as well.

"Speaking."

Vikander didn’t care much for the newcomers to the Scarab. He didn’t care about the business and drama revolving around Raum. He didn’t care about the mysterious island that made a general uproar among the populace of Novus. He didn’t care about how Senna seemed far more interested in Solterra’s empty throne or the Halcyon Unit of Terrastella. He didn’t care that he had locked himself away in his room once more, not even opening the door for Aghavni or August when they came knocking to remind him to eat.

He didn’t care about any of it.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

He cared about Lieve. He cared about his work. He cared about his research, his studies, and the dead body of his beloved still hidden away in the attic safely within his chamber. He slaved, obsessed, and experimented. It worked once, why would it not work a second time? Why could he not bring her back?! No matter his efforts and the resources he gathered, paying coin after coin for a plethora of rare ingredients, he simply could not bring her back. Nothing worked. Nothing could replicate the effects his magic and spells had upon bringing his daughter back from the dead, and it had drained him, dampening his hopes and aspirations time and time again until the clawing hands of dark depression became the familiar cloak he wore with biting words and burning self-loathing.

Lieve’tel was his only saving grace. His beautiful, innocent daughter brought a light into his otherwise dark and lonely life, her sweet voice becoming the new balm to soothe the stinging wounds left behind whenever the dark bouts of depression were through with him. It was by her whim that he ate, albeit rarely.

His weight had dropped. His coat had begun to lose its shine. The sleepless nights were getting the best of him and his mood began to reflect it. Reclusive as he was, even with Lieve’s help and presence, the desire to remain locked within his chambers out of the eyes of the Scarab had been too powerful to ignore. Days, weeks, months passed by, swirling around him while he remained stagnant.

Before he knew it, Raum either died or was killed, leaving Solterra’s throne empty. Someone stepped up to claim it. Vikander didn’t care enough to learn who it was. Changes happened in Delumine, in Terrastella. He didn’t care.

He just didn’t care.

It was the annoying pain of hunger that finally dragged Vikander from his room and into the larder of the Scarab, grabbing a loaf of bread, some honey from the local topiary, and a sweet cake for Lieve. Turning on his heels, the Friesian was just about to step out into the hall and quickly shuffle back to his room when a brilliantly colored shape had the nerve to obstruct his path.

Icy blue eyes narrowed as he regarded Valefor. Vikander hadn’t talked to him since their unfortunate first meeting, when he had given the blubbering fool his mark of the Scarab. Heaving a breath and hunching his shoulders, the Warlock ground his teeth together as he tensed beneath the heavy folds of his black cloak. He wished, briefly, that he’d had the mindset to put the hood up before leaving his room.

”Move.” The order was growled out dangerously, a raspy false promise of pain in hopes of intimidating the fire-colored fellow to move the hell out of his way. Valefor may be taller, but Vikander was not one to be trifled with, especially when in such a dark, dangerous mood.

"Speaking."

The moment their eyes met, Vikander knew something wasn’t right.

He knew magic. He lived and breathed magic. It was his job to know magic, to be intimately familiar with it, to be able to recognize a cast spell in an instant. He had served as a King’s war mage for years. He had enchanted weapons for the Scarab since its foundation. He enchanted these very walls. The magic that coursed through the Scarab was a part of him.  He knew magic, and because of it, he knew what this little nuisance was trying to pull.

Tearing his eyes away, as he never held eye contact even if he wasn’t trying to be put under the thrall of some mediocre talent, the soul weaver stalked forward until he was crowding the other stallion’s much-larger frame. He grit his teeth and stared at Valefor’s face, but did not meet his eyes. He stared just behind them, eyes narrowed and expression warped in a furious snarl, meeting the base of where his left ear met his large, thick, dumb skull.

“You attempt to use your magic on me again, boy, and I will have you thrown out of these halls for the rest of your miserable, worthless life.” Obviously this fool had no idea who he was dealing with. Meek, socially awkward, reclusive as he could be, Vikander knew rage and he knew it well, but he also knew when respect was due. He had served the Scarab since the very beginning.

Vikander did not care much for boasting, but this arrogant little whelp deserved it. Hell, in his opinion he deserved a lot more. Since day one, Valefor had been nothing but a nuisance. The warlock did not even care to know what his official ‘position’ within the Scarab even was, but he was useless. Senna guided them. Aghavni reinforced his word and assisted Vikander in his studies and research. August protected her. Madelyn did whatever it was she usually did, but she retrieved items that he asked of her, useful things for his research.

“I gave you that mark,” he growled out with a motion to where Valefor’s Scarab tattoo lay beneath bloodred tufts, lips nearly frothing in anger as his entire body quivered with a strange, foreign rage, ears pinned flat to be lost amidst his mane of wild black curls, “I can take it away.”

With that promise made, the Friesian moved to shove past Valefor’s larger body, intending to shove into him with his shoulder and move him out of the doorway enough for the warlock to slip through.

He needed to tell Senna.

"Speaking."