Chapter Text
She knew the stories they told.
The stories of Mystacor’s traitor, of Hordak’s commander. Two tales marked by two curses. Two tales that ended the same.
Curses. Dark magic. Parasitic things. Vengeful and starving, clawing from the shadows with frenzied abandon. They were not to be trusted, and yet she had followed them willingly. And now they stalked her, stained her path with indelible horrors.
The first tale was of her death. And the birth of a grey-fleshed creature, gouged and mangled with reptilian eyes. The Spell of Obtainment had rendered Light Spinner unrecognisable. Unredeemable. Exiled. She had heard their whispers. Whispers of the Beast. The Beast who fled Mystacor. The beast who savagely murdered the headmaster and crawled to the other side of the war, to the Horde where it belonged.
The second tale told of the Horde’s sorcerer. Hordak’s commander, cold and covert behind the mask. The Beast could be half respectable when it remained obscured, though she was no less despised. This tale ended where the first had begun, in the manner and place from which she had been banished.
The Battle of Mystacor had been a failure. A failure only surpassed by Hordak’s own defeat in the subsequent days.
Shadow Weaver touched the bell jar. Carefully, she lifted it, to the only magical substance that remained here. It was a powerful incantation, though it was unpolished. Likely a draft, a last resort. The memory made her hair rise. She’d never expect forgiveness from Micah, yet the hatred in his casting had left something bitter in her throat.
Her fingertip brushed the underside of a petal. So frail and velvet-soft. The magic pulsed against her finger, and for a moment she was lost in her own enamourment. Magic. Its humming energy. Pure.
With a soft crackle, the petal fell. Shadow Weaver withdrew her hand. Stiffly, she replaced the jar.
They said that the Beast had died that night. Drained of her power by Micah’s curse. Left to rot in Mystacor’s halls.
They were half right. It was hardly a life cowering here. The gnawing despair in her stomach served as a sole reminder that to live was to suffer. She was a beetle in a jar, a rat in a well, scrambling between the rigidity of her past and an aimless future.
The remainder of her life was mapped in petals and it would be lived with little more than regret.
***
“Allow me to demonstrate the technique in which we burn the petals. Like this!”
It was a very pleasant morning. The birds were chirping, the birdbath was smoking, Perfuma’s protests regarding the hazards associated with conjuring fires in the middle of Brightmoon’s gardens were but a distant afterthought, and Casta’s all time favourite student had given her the time of day. Or - well. A very tiny fragment of her day.
“Uh. I appreciate you offering to teach me, Aunt Casta,” Glimmer expressed, strained. “But, you know - Dad’s been showing me plenty of spells too. Honestly, I’m pretty magicked out for the day.”
“Oh. I see.” Casta discarded the stem, setting it ablaze. So…perhaps sticking to the traditional candles and such would have been a better first approach after all. And yet she had initially thought against it with Glimmer’s impatient - no, eager disposition….she dusted her robe vigorously, brushing away her dismay. “Well, if you need any assistance, Glimmer, don’t hesitate to ask me. My assistance is known to be absolutely legendary... ”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine , ” Glimmer sighed. She brightened. “Actually, I’m going to meet Bow and Adora for brunch now. And Catra. You mentioned Dad - um, surely he’s back soon?”
Ah, yes. Micah. Given their shared residency in Brightmoon, finding him shouldn’t have been so difficult. Except that, when he wasn’t helping Glimmer or performing royal duties, Micah disappeared to spend time alone. The war had granted him custody of too many memories. He shouldered them and he took care of them, but they offered him little respite. And he was still unused to company, she could tell. The war had changed them all.
Bidding her niece an affectionate goodbye, “I’m so glad you’re making time for your friends!” Casta left the gardens. She passed Perfuma on her way out, receiving a frown of disappointment. Absolutely warranted, but oddly devastating at the same time. Before she could offer any kind of smile or recompense, Scorpia appeared, looping their arms together. They both turned, smiling giddily at each other.
Casta headed into the castle, not at all nauseated.
Of all the places to settle, Brightmoon was certainly one of the nicest. Where it lacked Mystacor’s cosy privacy and sharp elegance, it very nearly made up for it in sheer charm. Such a delicate place. Pink and pleasant with soft furniture and long windows. She had enjoyed her visits to the kingdom before the war, before Micah’s supposed death, before Angella had stopped writing to her and Glimmer had stopped visiting and she believed that the Horde had consumed everything she held dear.
She’d gotten most of her life back in one piece. Most. Like any of her borrowed books or stationary or cake tins, they never returned to her quite the same.
Casta slowed before the portrait hall. Queen Angella sat poised, regal and sharply beautiful in the end frame.
Micah was not here.
She allowed her gaze to pass over the frame, never quite reaching the eyes. Whatever bond they had shared in the early days of Glimmer’s childhood was long gone. Angella had never mourned it quite like she had.
Mind flashing briefly to Glimmer, she turned in the direction of the war room…
…right into a guard.
“Ow!”
The clash of metal sent her reeling towards the wall, knocked windless.
“Ugh.” She grumbled, scowling. “Are you hurt? I’d imagine not, with steel for clothes - you should really look where you’re goi-”
“Castspella, I’m so - Your Majesty. I apologise.” The guard leaned forward to stabilise her, eyes dark and warm and recognisable in a way that sucked the heat from Casta’s stomach.
“Juliet?”
General Juliet straightened. “I am deeply sorry. Your Majesty. It won’t happen again.”
‘I’m not…” Casta blinked. Her throat refused to open.
“Um. Casta? Glimmer told me you wanted to talk.” She heard her brother approach from behind her.
Dizzily, she nodded. “Micah!” She swallowed. “Yes. I wish to discuss…things.”
“Sure.” Micah glanced at the door ahead. “War room?”
***
It would be bordering on treason to suggest that Queen Glimmer’s wisest investment yet had been the war room swivel chairs…but they had been quite a big deal at the time, causing a surprising amount of controversy after Brightmoon’s funds had been redirected from military resources. And they were extremely comfortable. They were also a major factor in why she and Micah so often used the room for unwarlike conversations - after all, there were fewer meetings now - surely they wouldn’t want the chairs to go to waste?
“Fifteen crocheted penguins?” Micah spun slowly. “I just…no, I’m not saying it’s too many, but…why?”
“It’s just been a while since I had the chance to make them for her. She used to adore them, you know.”
She tried to ignore the way his brow pinched at the reminder of Glimmer’s childhood. “I understand,” he said slowly. “Look Casta, I know you love her to bits, but Glimmer’s worried that people still aren’t taking her seriously.”
“Of course I take her seriously! Glimmer has the makings of a great queen…strong, brave, resilient. Powerful. She must take after her Aunt.” Casta folded her arms, chin lifted. “But, if she wishes, I will stick to scarves.”
Micah’s eyes twinkled, and she was almost reminded of his former self - even as in his face still lurked hints of grief and atrophy. “I’m glad to hear it,” he grinned.
“Yes, well. Anything for my favourite niece.”
From the corner of her eye, she could see Micah watching her curiously, though his posture remained casual. He stopped spinning. After a moment, he prompted, “You can tell me anything, Casta. Really.”
Right. The reason she’d agreed to meet in the first place. She needed to stop stalling. Casta sat straighter.
“Well...I know that Mystacor may be in terrible shape - without magic, none of its functions will have held up, the wards will be down, it’ll probably be overrun with bugs and wolves and without any of the pipe magic the plumbing will be all ruined...but I intend to rebuild it.” She swallowed the self-consciousness in her tone. “I’d like to ask for your support.”
To his credit Micah didn’t laugh, though his brow furrowed. “In the same location? I don’t think it’s safe to return. Not with the curse intact.”
She pressed further. “And if it isn’t?”
“Then it won’t be a problem.” He stood. “But if it is... curses are difficult to break. And they’re dangerous. I think we’ve been through enough danger for a lifetime.” He looked at her, hopeful. “You could rebuild nearer to Brightmoon. Most of the surviving sorcerers live near here, anyway.”
There wasn’t much substance in arguing with her brother and his stubborn good nature. Especially when he wasn’t exactly wrong. Yet, she could not forsake Mystacor so easily.
“I will consider it,” she finally said. To be fair, there wasn’t much use in arguing with her, either. She stood to meet him. “But I will scout Mystacor myself first.”
***
She didn’t intend to be gone for more than a couple of days. Micah had insisted that she bring a horse at least. And a weapon. And a party of guards. And a sack of granola bars, as he seemed certain that had the curse indeed broken, she would be intent on staying.
“I’ll come with you,” he had later offered, though reluctantly. They still disagreed. “This isn’t just a scouting mission, and we both know it.”
“Surely I’m not so predictable. And you have responsibilities here, Micah. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself!” she had told him, and he had sighed and labelled her as stubborn. Like an absolute hypocrite.
Nevertheless, Casta took the horse.
She used to entertain the idea that Micah was Mystacor’s prodigal son – too bright and clever to keep home. She was the one who stayed. Mystacor was hers to take care of in a way that it had never been Micah’s. She had to see it now, if only to see it beyond hope of fixing.
The evening’s purple hue had hardly faded from the tips of the trees before Casta’s light incantation faded. A thickness settled over them - remnants of the curse, perhaps. So it remained. It probably would have been wise to turn back with this knowledge and leave it be, but wisdom was so easily overrun by her recklessness. She was drawn towards the gate.
With a sudden cry of distress, her horse surged upwards and Casta was sent sprawling into the weeds. As it galloped away, a low growl erupted above her.
Casta froze. Wolves. Her mind skipped to Mystacor’s wards. The protection wards. There was no magic. They were inactive. Of course. The clarity was fleeting before teeth snapped beside her ear and she yanked back, scrambling towards the gate.
It barely scraped open before the wolf lunged at her, teeth sinking into her ankle. She reached into the hollow air - magic numb.
Weakly, she kicked out, catching a rib or a leg to loosen its teeth. Before another could attack, she slammed the gate shut. Her attacker snarled, teeth glittering against the bars. Wheezing, she suppressed the urge to curse at it (such habits were dangerous to indulge as a teacher).
Well. The wards were inactive. The journey back would be difficult.
Slowly, she rose, turning to face her former school. Rude as the welcome had been, she was glad to be back.
***
The hall unravelled before them, the carpet stretched out like a gold-speckled tongue. Casta stumbled forward, foot catching on Micah’s robe. Glancing up, she half feared the place would swallow her whole.
Micah cast back a goofy grin. “Bring me a souvenir next time.”
“Huh?”
“When you trip.”
“Jerk.”
Micah’s smile widened. “It’s cool though, isn’t it? Who knows, maybe you’ll even be stuck with me for some classes.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitated. “Well - not for the first couple of years. But after that - yeah. For sure.”
Micah could be an incredible liar sometimes.
The hall was dark, now. Cold. She lamented her temporary loss of magic. She’d have to retrieve some of the rune patterns from her office. Given that most of them lay scattered around the boundaries of the school rather than within it, they could be reactivated from the outside. Theoretically.
She was exceptional at theory. She enjoyed it - studying great works and creations and stories. She had become Head Sorceress primarily from her theoretical work and knowledge of the school’s historical legacy.
Practical matters, on the other hand, had always been more of Micah’s expertise. She shook away a memory, a little too sharp, rounding the corner to her office.
Her hand grazed over the doorknob.
“Your Majesty?”
“Yes?”
“It’s about your brother. The King. He’s dead.”
She opened the door.
With a vague visualisation of her possessions and a couple of calculated drawer-fumbles, Casta finally pulled out a handful of loose matches. She struck one clumsily, the spark crackling onto her torch. Matches weren’t too commonly used – only provided to some of the younger students who couldn’t cast properly.
Light bloomed around her, revealing her desk all dusty and cobwebbed, but ultimately as she’d left it. Well. Almost. Her bookcase was shifted to the side, chair oddly angled. There were runes vandalising her desk. Inactive, of course, but fresh. And highly inappropriate.
Her skin prickled, breath hitching as someone sneered in her ear.
“You dare to venture back here?”
Casta spun, thrusting the torch forward, but the figure had slunk back, invisible. “You’re alive,” she breathed, despising the tremble in her voice. “After everything you’ve done . ”
“Obviously,” came the reply. “I can only assume that you’ve come to fix your handiwork. Did you bring Micah , too?”
Her blood burned at his name. How dare she? “Micah has no interest in things of the past,” she snapped. “Especially you.”
She could almost hear the smirk, cutting further into a place of weakness. “Yes. I suppose he was always looking ahead, as one does, with a future as bright as his.” The torch flickered. “Perhaps it is better that he is not here. Such curses affect the powerful more than any other.”
Casta ignored the jab with narrowed eyes. The room’s shadows remained still. In her hatred, a dark curiosity plagued her, hungry and insistent.
“Step into the light,” she ordered softly.
There was a pause. A shift.
“You wish to see me?” The woman’s tone carried an edge.
She didn’t respond at first, glaring into the dim. Then she lowered her torch, slowly. “Please.”
There was a movement. Slight. A twitch of consideration – or apprehension, in her peripheral. Casta jerked her torch to the side, hand reaching to seize Shadow Weaver’s robe and bring the torch to her –
Oh.
Maskless. Scars twisted like brambles under hollowed cheekbones, over her nose, disappearing down her scarf. Slitted green eyes flashed in the firelight, lips pulled back in fury.
Shadow Weaver inhaled sharply, pulling back. She whipped around into the darkness and disappeared.
***
She steered clear from the west side of Mystacor most days, only stopping by the gardens in the faintest glow of the morning. The library ate up most of her time, and she was vaguely reminded of the student life in Mystacor. It was a happy time, but fleeting. Others had gone on to become war heroes and advisors, yet she had stayed behind, alone.
Outside the library, she studied the art of curses, traced the runes on the south pillars of the school. Breaking a curse traditionally required the presence of a condition embedded. Something verbal like password usually, or a time limit, though many curses wore off eventually. When she had outlined the spell in the midst of battle, there had been no time to create conditions or failsafes. Micah had cast a draft - powerful, functional, but imperfect.
Of course - another avenue to breaking it would be to destroy the vessel.
The vessel.
The memory startled her awake, blinking up at the painted stars on the roof of her quarters. Drowsily, she slipped from her bed and down the dim lit corridor, headed for the library once again.
Curses were relatively straightforward. In theory. An intention to cast it, a condition to end it, a bridge to channel it and a vessel to hold it. The intention and the bridge were irrelevant now that the curse had taken hold.
Thankfully, the torches were still ignited from earlier that day. She trawled through the spines. Ancient things.
Pulling out a book, she flinched at a flash of scarlet. She felt her hackles rise. Shadow Weaver stood nearby. It was too late now to duck out now. She would not be intimidated. Although, she did wish that she wasn’t in her pyjamas.
And that Mystacor’s library was not so economically designed.
She sighed, glaring at the shelves, three times her size. More specifically, she glared at the fifth shelf up. Chaotic practices. Counter curses. Damage control. It was a touch too high for her to reach, yet hardly worth lugging the stepladder over for.
Glancing around to ensure she was out of sight, Casta boosted herself up from the shelf below, finger tripping the spine of a volume. Gritting her teeth, she tried once more.
As she felt the book shift above her, a hand reached in from behind, plucking it away.
She gaped, outraged. “Do you mind?”
“ My Mother’s a Leech: The Art of Draining , ” Shadow Weaver drawled, flipping a page over. “Taking a break from family, Castaspella?”
“It must have been placed incorrectly.” Casta scowled as Shadow Weaver slid it back on the shelf.
“You will find scant evidence of anything useful here,” she remarked, sweeping over the other books. “Norwyn feared the darker arts. He stripped the library bare decades ago.”
“For good reason, too.”
She received a sound of exasperation. “If you speak of the Spell of Obtainment, it was clearly a mistake - one of which I have paid the price for.”
“Mistake?” Casta scoffed. “Please. You were a Horde commander for years . You chose your side many times over.”
“You presume to know me-”
“I know enough,” she interrupted. She had battled the Horde. She had battled the Beast. She had lived those stories and now they lay clear as day across her face. Shadow Weaver stared back, mouth twisted into a strange rictus.
Casta did not wait for her response.
***
“She’s so precious.”
“She is. And exhausting, but you’ll probably learn that after today. It’ll only be a couple of hours, Castaspella, I do apologise for the late notice -”
“Oh no, it’s my pleasure, Angella. Really, I love children.” She snuggled her, stroking Glimmer’s cotton candy hair. She caught the Queen’s odd expression. “She’ll be comfortable here,” she reassured. “Magically warmed formula, plush cots…I even acquired some organic baby powder!”
Angella shook her head. “I’m not worried,” she said, though Casta wasn’t so sure. She hovered in the doorway, wings twitching. “She’s been demonstrating some magical tendencies. Your family’s genes, I imagine.” She pursed her lips, mock-annoyed. “It’s been quite intense.”
“I see.” She smiled at tiny baby Glimmer, a warm, heavy bundle in her arms. “It should be no problem.”
“You’re good with her. I’m surprised you don’t have any of your own.”
Casta snorted. Mystacor’s students were her own, in a way. “I wouldn’t have the time,” she replied, a little wistful. “Although - I will always have time for Glimmer here.”
Angella nodded, seeming to swallow whatever she wanted to say. She turned to leave, but then glanced back. “Micah told me about Juliet.”
Juliet.
The name stuck sharp like weeds in Casta’s throat. Angella looked almost pitying in a way she would never have usually been. In a way she should never have been. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”
“Oh. It’s fine.” Her voice rang out, cheerful.
Really. It was fine. She had always been alone. Some things were never meant to be.
***
They were left outside her door the following morning.
Three neatly stacked books. All on curses. A condescending remark, most likely, or a thinly veiled murder attempt. Upon closer inspection (more specifically, determining that the pages were not laced with poison), Casta noted that they were definitely not from the library.
She flicked through them over the next couple of days out of a morbid curiosity. Fascinating (and disturbing) as they were, they didn’t really provide too many viable solutions to the problem at hand.
“Condescending and useless,” she noted. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help wondering if Shadow Weaver possessed any other terrible readings.
The riper produce was unpicked on her subsequent journey to the gardens, borrowed books tucked under her arm. She had to admit, the prosperity of the gardens was surprising. Even without any magical enhancements, the results of pruning and watering was evident. She supposed that Shadow Weaver couldn’t always have been allergic to sunlight and joy and good things in general.
She stepped into the greenhouse with little patience for Shadow Weaver’s games, but decidedly limited options, unsurprised to find it full of plants, except for one of the dorm beds in the corner and a couple of books and baskets of produce near the door. And a lone table. It stood off to the side of the bed, against the wall.
On it sat a bell jar, a single red rose levitating within.
Magic. Her heart quivered at the sensation. Instinct tugged her forward, heat prickling in her fingers as she lifted the glass. Such a familiar spark of energy reminded her of how unnatural it felt to be deprived of it.
“Don’t touch that.” From the doorway, Shadow Weaver lurched forward, face white. It morphed into something wild as she twisted, shielding the rose and looming over Casta. “Get out,” she spat. “Get out!”
“Wait.” Casta stepped back. “I came to return your books! Look - I thought we could compromise -”
“You sought to kill me.” Her voice was breathless with fury - or fear - scars and teeth mangled in gruesome rage. None of her cold wrath, no remnant of her calculated commander’s vengeance. Such was torn clean off to reveal something raw and vile beneath.
And really, at this point, Casta might as well have given murder a go, seeing as her own life expectancy was rapidly dwindling before her eyes. Her pity and bafflement was washed over with a feeling of stupidity - this woman was dangerous , this woman would kill her and here she was, alone, away from her family, sleeping in the same building, eating foods she had grown, borrowing her books. What was next? Braiding each other’s hair? Being tossed off the balcony?
Suddenly not caring at all how afraid she seemed, Casta spun and hurried down to the gate and into the forest beyond.
She left.
Without having activated the wards.
She swore upon realising this. Loudly. Because really, she wouldn’t live long enough at this rate to see it become a habit.
The wolves were on her before Mystacor was even from her line of sight. It was her fault, really. Maybe they could use her as a cautionary tale for Mystacor’s future generation to prevent midnight strolls in forests and to make children eat their vegetables.
A wolf latched onto her ankle, though before she could kick it off, another slammed her into the soil, claws gouging her robes, breath scalding her neck.
This whole journey had been for naught. She would never see Mystacor be rebuilt. She would never hug her brother again. She would never crochet another penguin. She would die alone in the middle of a forest, eaten alive in her mid-thirties, wearing her second-to-least favourite socks. Casta struggled, efforts waning.
And then the weight was gone.
Shadow Weaver gripped her upper arm, yanking her off the ground. “You imbecile - what were you thinking?” she snapped, panting. She shoved past another wolf with great effort. “You will kill us both.”
The wolves appeared to be the lesser of two evils, Casta was tempted to point out, though it probably wasn’t too helpful to the situation. She stared at her, considering her own gratitude. Shadow Weaver pushed her forward.
“Go!” she growled.
Swerving around snapping teeth and claws, Casta gripped Shadow Weaver’s robe tightly as they stumbled back to Mystacor. It was easier with the two of them. Almost. At the gate, a wolf lashed out, claws tearing down Shadow Weaver’s side. She hissed and buckled, and summoning the last of her energy, Casta all but dragged them both inside.
They collapsed into the common rooms, Casta’s forearm damp with the other woman’s blood. Why she had followed was beyond her.
She tugged down Shadow Weaver’s sleeve, grimacing at the wound on her shoulder. With a cloth and a cup of warm saline from the kitchens, she cleaned it gently, feeling her tense beneath, though she did not protest. It should have felt wrong, tending to someone whose crimes had once burned her so terribly. Casta clenched her jaw as she dabbed, silently noting the scars etched along her collarbone, down her shoulder and into her robes below. Faded. The angry gash of crimson on her shoulder would no doubt blend in with the others when it healed.
“You saved me.” The words came out flat, and exasperation flickered over Shadow Weaver’s face.
“I do not wish to be accused of murder should the Queen or your brother or one of your students come searching for you.” It was said so smoothly that Casta was unsure if she fully believed her. It hardly mattered at this point, anyway.
“Well…thank you anyway.” She exhaled. “But you really ought to control your temper.”
“And evade your incessant criticism? Now, why would I do that?” Shadow Weaver shifted, ignoring her disapproval. “You came to destroy the rose, no? I suppose that you would be aware that is acts as a receptacle for the curse."
“That was never the plan.”
“No. You intended for me to hold the curse myself.” She turned away. “As I will. Soon.”
This gave her pause. “What do you mean?”
“Curses are parasitic by nature, yes? They feed off of the magic in a living thing. Micah chose to anchor it to me through the proxy of a rose…no doubt in the hopes that I would perish immediately.” Shadow Weaver huffed. “Which I did not, clearly. However, should the rose die, it will transfer to me.”
“And while you are drained of your magic...”
“I will die.”
There was a strange note to her tone and Casta briefly wondered if such an easy escape was ever tempting. Shadow Weaver glanced at her shrewdly, a burning sensation. “It is not so painless to be eaten alive.”
Casta brushed the scar on the base of her neck, featherlight. The mark of having been devoured whole and surviving. “No,” she agreed. “I would imagine not.”
Shadow Weaver stilled. She pulled away. Her voice was odd as she readjusted her robe, rising from the couch. “Why are you here, if not to kill me?”
Casta straightened, her own candour surprising. “I intend to break the curse. Restore Mystacor to its former glory. Our remaining sorcerers deserve as much.”
“You intend to break it? Without killing me.” Shadow Weaver scoffed. “It is impossible. Surely even you recognise that.”
“I don’t like to solve my problems by killing people in cold blood,” Casta countered, lifting her gaze. “We are not the same.”
“Delusional and self-righteous? You may have a point.” Shadow Weaver scowled down at her. “There are no easy options this time, Castaspella. You will fail one way or another.”