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‘Dorian! Wait!’
Dorian did not wait.
There was no time to think, no time to plan. For the last month, he had been considering his options carefully, deliberating how best to weasel his way out of his parents’ grasp when they had turned their estate in Ventus into a veritable high-security velveteen prison. There was not a doorway without a pair of guards standing by on duty. No window that wasn’t miraculously sealed shut, no gate that wasn’t left locked night and day. A stealthy escape was going to prove difficult— but difficult had never stopped Dorian before. He loved a good challenge.
Part of him had been hoping to hear from Alexius, too. Over a year, and not a word. Not even rumour floating about his whereabouts— and Maker knows, the Imperium loved its rumours. It was as if he simply vanished from existence. Had Dorian not known better, he might have actually suspected Alexius of having succeeded with his research while he was away. Popped his entire family through time, back to before Felix got sick, to when his wife was still alive. To when the world made sense. The thought was almost enough to make him sick, knowing very well that Alexius would have had to resort to an inordinate amount of blood magic for such a feat to be possible.
But, of course, Dorian knew it wasn’t possible. There were more matters that complicated such a feat than simple lack of power. And— on top of that— he is fairly certain that it would affect the stability of the world as they knew it, as well. Since there wasn’t a hole in the sky, he was certain no such incredible feat had been performed while he was away.
Alexius was somewhere.
Dorian just wished he knew where.
He wished he had never let his emotions get the better of him, never spit the cruel words in Alexius’ face before he stormed off with his belongings. Sure, the man was losing himself to his grief, was refusing to listen to reason even when everyone around him was practically feeding it to him on a silver spoon— but he had been good to Dorian. He’d been hurting, blindsided by the reality of just how powerless he was to the churnings of fate. What he needed was someone to help him through his irrational thoughts, not to storm off in a petty huff of frustration. If Dorian had stayed, perhaps he could have helped.
Maker, if only Dorian had stayed.
‘Please, Dorian—’
The sound of his father’s footsteps behind him rang in his ears, and he knew he didn’t have time for a grand escape plan. No time to grab belongings, to say goodbye to any of his childhood friends and family.
Not that he can think of anyone in that moment he wanted to say goodbye to, in that moment. How many of them knew? His mother, undoubtedly. How many of his friends and servants had looked him in the eye this morning, knowing what awaited him in his father’s chambers?
The first set of double doors that lead out of the Pavus estate fling open with a motion of his hand, slamming into the walls with enough force to announce his departure to the entire household.
Good. If this was not going to be a quiet departure, he wanted it to be as loud and messy as possible.
To their credit, the pair of guards waiting outside were alert and ready to take up arms against Dorian. It was just unfortunate that alertness was not enough to save them. The first raised his staff and drew a swell of magic around him— force magic, throw me to the ground, keep me subdued. Too slow, too stiff. It was almost childs’ play to interrupt his cast with… a firm elbow to the face, actually. Magic wasn’t the only tool at a mage’s disposal, after all. Funny how many forgot that. With the man reeling in pain, Dorian wrenched his staff from his grasp and turned instead to the second, who in the meanwhile had at least managed to properly ready his spell.
‘Stop! Don’t hurt him!’
Dorian couldn’t help but laugh— a cruel, bitter sound. Did his father realized how he sounded? Pretending not only to care about his safety, but to imply that the guard in front of him was anything more than another target to blast out of his way. The laugh remains bitter on his tongue as he easily dispels the guard’s feeble attempt to disarm him, and follows up with the first spell that comes to his fingertips.
Horror.
With a firm twist of his staff, he tugged at the Veil around the poor bastard’s consciousness, letting him peek into the nethers of the Fade, letting his own brain peer in the face of his own deepest nightmares. A shroud of darkness fell over his eyes as his own staff clattered noisily to the ground and he gripped at the side of his face, shaking and muttering until a scream grew in his lungs.
It startles Dorian, how he almost enjoys the sound.
Of course, the delay means that both the first guard has also gathered his wits back— and, even worse, now his father was here too, hands raised in a gesture of peace. But all Dorian could see was the blood still staining his fingertips.
'Dorian, please, if you’ll let me explain—'
“No.”
The syllable is harsh and choked, barely a word as much a noise. It’s all the reply Dorian gives his father, because it’s all the reply he deserves. Dorian doesn’t want an explanation. He doesn’t want an apology. The only thing he wants, right now, is to be as far away from this Maker-forsaken family as possible.
If that meant he had to fight off every guard in his father’s employ, then so be it. He was not going back inside of the estate willingly.
There is no flourish to his movements as Dorian drags the end of the staff across the cobblestone pathway beneath their feet. He feels the anger boiling inside of him, the fear and panic giving way to pure rage, and he channels that into his motions as he summons a massive wall of fire with his motion, the air in the courtyard blistering and expanding in a wave of heat that forces the men to shield their eyes as the flames crawl outwards, ever outwards. Soon, the tapestry hanging from the stucco exterior was caught aflame, the fire chewing through the Pavus sigil with the same ease as any other dirt piece of cloth.
It was a beautiful sight, really. Dorian would have laughed if he wasn’t already choking on sobs caught deep within his chest. He could see his father on the other side of the flames, but it was hard to read his expression through the swell of smoke and ashes climbing upwards. Already, he could hear the screams of horror from inside, someone calling for help. But his father said nothing. He simply stared at his son. The servants started to flock around him, trying to pull him back inside as the flames spread to the plants and greenery surrounding the grounds.
It was time to go.
With only the guard’s staff clutched firmly in his hand, he turned on his heel and promised himself he wouldn’t look back.
A part of him prayed the flames would burn the entire place to the ground.
Another wondered what it was he felt breaking inside of him.