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Marius stopped, the flicker of annoyance on his face curdling into a look of genuine, incredulous amusement. He looked the small, dark-haired boy up and down, taking in the cheap hostel-issued clothes and the ridiculously formal posture. Then he laughed. It was a short, ugly bark of a laugh, full of gravel and condescension.
"New management?" he scoffed, taking a step closer, looming over Kaelen. "You got guts, kid, I'll give you that. But you've got a serious misunderstanding of how things work around here. Now, piss off before I lose my patience."
Kaelen's smile did not waver. If anything, it widened, a slow, delighted stretching of his lips that was utterly devoid of warmth. "Patience is a resource, Mr. Marius. And yours, I suspect, is as limited as your magical aptitude."
The name of magic, spoken so casually in the middle of this drab Muggle park, hit Marius like a physical blow. The laughter died in his throat. His eyes, small and hard, narrowed with suspicion. "What did you say?"
"Oh, you heard me," Kaelen said, his tone light and conversational. He took a small step to the side, forcing Marius to turn with him, putting the setting sun directly behind Kaelen's head, framing him in a disorienting silhouette. "You must be Marius Blackwood. A bit on the nose, naming your new home after the family that disowned you, isn't it? The Blackwoods of Wiltshire. A respectable, if rather dull, pure-blood line. They were so ashamed when their third son turned out to be a Squib. They didn't even erase you from the family tapestry. They just… put a tea stain over your face. A permanent, pathetic smudge."
Every word was a precision strike, delivered with the calm, smiling interest of a historian recounting a mildly amusing anecdote. Marius's face, which had been ruddy, went a stark, waxy white. He stumbled back a step, his hand instinctively going to a cheap, brass ring on his pinky finger—one of his charmed trinkets.
"You've been talking to the wrong people, kid," Marius hissed, his voice thin with a new, unwelcome fear. He tried to muster his usual bravado. "Some people… they have accidents. They disappear. I can make that happen." He rubbed the ring, and a small, pathetic puff of green smoke erupted from it, smelling faintly of sulfur. It was his party trick, the one he used to terrify the local thugs.
Kaelen watched the smoke dissipate on the breeze, his smile turning into a look of profound, theatrical pity. "That?" he asked, his voice laced with a dark, teasing humor. "That is your grand display of power? A cantrip that would embarrass a first-year? You are a failure, Marius. You were a failure in the world you were born into, and you've built an empire of failures in this one to make yourself feel like a king."
He took a slow step forward. "Let me show you what real power looks like."
Kaelen raised a single, elegant finger. He did not say a word. He did not brandish a wand. He simply focused his will, the cold, demanding power that was an extension of his very being, on the cheap brass ring on Marius's hand.
Marius let out a strangled gasp. The ring was contracting. The cheap metal, enchanted with a simple warming charm, was now glowing a dull, angry red. It tightened around his fleshy finger, the heat intensifying from uncomfortable to searing. He clawed at it, his eyes wide with panic as the smell of his own burning skin filled the air.
"Please!" he whimpered, his tough-guy facade melting into a puddle of pure terror. "Stop! Please!"
Kaelen's smile was radiant. He was enjoying this. The visceral, immediate feedback of another's pain and fear, directly subject to his will, was a heady, intoxicating nectar. It was a far more satisfying victory than any solved riddle or correctly brewed potion. He let the pressure build for another five seconds, watching the sweat bead on the Squib's forehead, before he casually flicked his finger. The pressure and heat vanished instantly.
Marius collapsed onto the park bench, cradling his burnt, throbbing hand, his breath coming in ragged, terrified sobs. He was broken.
Kaelen walked over and sat down beside him, leaving a respectable, business-like distance between them. "As I was saying," he continued, his voice once again calm and pleasant, "your operation has inefficiencies. Your reach is limited. Your enforcers are unreliable. Your profits are… adequate, but they could be exceptional."
He looked at the trembling, defeated man. "This is my offer. You will continue to be the face of the operation. You will collect the envelopes, you will manage the day-to-day business. Your life will, on the surface, remain exactly the same." He paused, letting the words sink in. "But you will answer to me. You will provide me with a full accounting of your books. You will follow my directives without question. In return, I will provide you with something you've never had: real power. I will make this pathetic little borough the most efficient, most profitable, and most feared criminal enterprise in all of London. I will make you a king in truth, not just in your own sad little mind."
He stood up, looking down at the Squib. "I am, Mr. Marius, a dual-natured deity. To my assets, to those who are loyal and efficient, I am a Spenta. A good god. I bring order, protection, and prosperity."
His smile returned, wider and colder than ever. "But to my enemies… to those who are inefficient, who disappoint me… I am an Angra. An evil god. And you have just had a very, very small taste of the kind of creativity an evil god can bring to bear."
He held out a hand. Not in friendship, but in contract. "Do we have a deal, Marius?"
Marius looked up, his face a mess of terror and a dawning, desperate awe. He saw not a child, but a monster in a boy's skin, an entity of terrifying, absolute power offering him a place in its shadow. He took Kaelen's hand, his own trembling violently.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. Management."
"Excellent," Kaelen said, his grip firm and cold. "My first directive is this: double the tax on the Ravens. Their recent behavior has been… unprofessional. It is time they learned the cost of doing business with a competent god."
He released the man's hand and turned to walk away, leaving Marius alone on the bench, a newly crowned vassal in a kingdom he no longer owned.
Kaelen walked back towards the hostel, the setting sun casting his long shadow before him. He felt the joy of the encounter still singing in his veins, a dark, exhilarating music. He had been right. This was true power. The power to unmake a man with a whisper and a smile. He had spent a year learning the rules of a rigged game. Now, he was finally building his own board.