Chapter Text
“Is this a good idea?”
No answer.
“No, seriously. Is this a good id-”
“ Valeria. ”
Sharp. Measured. Enough.
The trio stood veiled in shadow atop the museum roof, darkness twirling around them as if it were alive and slithering. From a distance, they would have looked like indistinct silhouettes - hazy and not almost there. But they were. It was the dead of night - it was their time.
This kind of work was muscle memory to them now, carved into them since birth. Weapons handed to them before any sort of love. Morals didn’t exist to them, not really. The Patriarch gave them orders, and they followed. If they didn’t then there would be consequences. Just like clockwork. They knew better than to disobey,
Valeria stewed in silence as she often did. Her eyes flicked up to the left, to the eldest of the three. He met her glare with a calm indifference and cold judgement. He, Nico, blinked once, and turned his head back down to the roof they were standing on.
Nico crouched, careful not to scuff the polished leather of his custom brogues, and turned his head slightly to the right. “Make it quick, Azelio.”
Azelio didn’t respond with words, just a lopsided smirk, and nodded. Shadows peeled up and swallowed him whole, dragging him down through the roof, and pulled the other two with him.
They seeped into the museum like suffocating smoke. Their bodies reformed effortlessly.
Valeria curled down a corridor first, quick with her pace and soft on the soles of her feet. Her fingertips dipped into the pools of shadows, ready to twist it into something jagged and deadly at a moment’s notice. Her crimson hair swayed with every bounce in her step.
Azelio sank back into the shadows, flickering along the edges of the opposite hallway until he reached a sliver of golden light glowing from under a locked door. The only light left on in the building - the museum curator was still here. Good . Time for Azelio to live up to his alias.
And Nico - the eldest - remained poised and quiet in the middle of the atrium waiting for the other two to finish up their tasks. Taking out the curator and retrieving the artefact took less than five minutes.
Roughly about as much effort as tying their shoes.
Back home in the vast and breathless manor, time held its breath.
The room was extensive, floorboards blackened with age. They creaked and moaned with every step taken on them and held secrets decades old. Walls lined with gold-rimmed portraits and small plaques - detailing the long lineage of the Vota household. The hearth burned low, occasionally snapping, but never splitting the deafening silence.
At the centre of the room sat a long table carved from dark oak. Every few weeks someone is assigned to varnish it and to care for it. It still didn’t fade the initials carved into the side of the upper table - V.V. Valeria was intensely punished for that. Three people were seated at the table - two side by side at the head, and the third alone at the opposite end. They waited silently. The others were late. In this house, things happened on time, and if they didn’t then something derailed the plan.
Tullio Vota sat like a monument, arms crossed over his broad chest, crimson hair buzzed on top. His gaze never left the man seated across from them. Firelight flickered across his sharp features, and his expression never faltered. Beside him, Avis Vota remained composed, lips drawn into a thin unimpressed line, hands laced and rested atop the oak.
The third man, shrouded in high-collared fabrics of dark colours that masked the entirety of any distinguishing features, sat still. The silence didn’t creep under his skin and squirm like it would with most people in the presence of The Patriarch and The Matriarch.
No words passed between them as they waited for the children to return. Tullio’s children never failed - and if they ever did then he would sever them from the family line as easily as killing weeds.
So they waited.
And then the doors opened.
No eyes moved to greet them.
“Late,” Tullio spoke.
“Apologies,” Nico responded, adjusting his tie slightly as the three entered the room. He crossed the space effortlessly and placed the crystal in the middle of the table before taking a step back. Azelio and Valeria stood two steps behind him, each flanking one side.
The mystery man reached forward to take the crystal, rolling it around in between his fingers. It remained dull and lifeless, only glinting as the firelight caught it. “This is it?” He spoke.
Azelio nodded.
“And the sibling?” The mystery man continued.
“Strong,” Azelio responded.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Good.” He placed the crystal back down on the table. “Interested in it?”
“I believe she was,” Nico chimed in, voice low and tumbling through the room.
The man shrouded in fabric glanced back over to Tullio and Avis. “Efficient children.”
“If they weren’t then they wouldn’t be here,” Tullio stated with a cold efficiency. The statement didn’t shake the trio - they heard it often enough. Internalised it.
“Payment,” Avis chimed in. “We don’t work for free.”
Tullio waved the trio away with a single flick of his fingers, not even glancing in their direction as they filed back out the way they came. The heavy doors slamming shut behind them with a finality.
Nico leaned back against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed and poised. He was just waiting to be called upon. His importance outranked the others by far - the next in line for master of the entire guild, he was already chosen and seen.
Azelio stretched with a fake yawn, earning only the slightest glance of annoyance from his older brother, and the smallest smirk of amusement from his younger sister. He let out a low whistle, piercing the blanket of silence that enveloped the manor. “Interesting.”
Spinning on his heels, Azelio started down the hallway. Valeria followed. The two bumped shoulders in a way that was a bit too intentional to be accidental - Valeria laughed a little, in a way that she could only let out around Azelio.
Nico shifted his gaze, back down to the floor. His eyes narrowed and he bent, polishing out the scuffle of dirt on his shoes, quietly muttering, “filthy.”