Dreogan had decided. It had been the singlemost harrowing day since he had begun this adventure two years ago. His time had been spent associating with questionable sorts: rogues, political revolutionaries, thieves, political hirelings -- anyone who might have had an agenda against his father. He hadn't come across any leads, but he had certainly enough of the world. Particular after today

The past three weeks had been spent with a group centred in Turkey. They specialised in blackmarket goods and had, at one time, been interested in what Kibbutz Erez -- Dreogan's father's community -- might produce through their research. There was talk of a powerful weapon, a powerful magical weapon that could empower even Muggles with sorcery and witchcraft.

But today, their sights had been lower. Today, they had ransacked a home of a notable family. Today, their plans had not gone quite according to, well, plan and they had -- oh God. Today, they had murdered the entire family. Each one.

Dreogan could not do it. He didn't do one thing to help. He knew now, this would be his last day with the group. If he stayed, he would need to prove himself as ruthless as they to avoid suspicion, or he would need to flee for his life. He'd seen too much and he couldn't be trusted.

And, Dreogan realised with some irony, he could not be trusted because he was honest. Because he could not murder a person. He'd been standing next to the son, likely only twelve years old. Just younger than Adon. He hadn't been able to do it; he hadn't ever considered it'd be expected of him. He didn't carry through. But another man of their numbers did. Dreogan had fled with the others; they took what they wanted, but Dreogan, new to the group, knew he wouldn't be getting anything from this but bad memories and nightmares. He didn't want that.

Dreogan was now sitting in the basement room of their building where the men of the group were running through their spoils, divvying up the profits. Dreogan knew their -- not his -- leader, Gözde, had been looking for something specifically, but, as he sat silently, speaking to a few of his favourites alone in a corner, he began to think they had not found it. The others, oblivious to the tension in the circle, were carousing, deciding what they'd do with the money, particularly the two other young "apprentices" who, chosen for their legerdemain and sleight of hand, were already gloating in their great potential as they considered not only their monetary success but their rising to fame and glory. Silently, Dreogan sat at the edge of this group, trying to avoid conversation while yet showing the minimal excitement, drinking from his cup of water and looking at the door, wondering when would be the best time to make a break for it.

His looked back at the small group of Chosen Men with Gözde. His eyes caught -- in a frightening moment -- with a member of the group he had not talked to before, and had no intention of speaking to. He went by Katsaros, but Dreogan suspected this was no more his name than Dreogan's was Bünyamin -- the name he'd chosen while he was here. Katsaros was young -- could not be more than twenty-five -- but was risking steadily up in the ranks. He was very much respected and, in Dree's eyes, very much feared; in this group, it was one and the same. Dreogan looked quickly down at his feet, knowing that this, of all things, was most likely to attract attention.

The harrowing day of days had given way to the cool chills of the Turkish night.  Burning wicks on oil lamps sent shadows dancing across the dirt floor as the boasts and laughter of the other men, made more brazen by their own survival and bold with their seeming success, echoed through the darkened basement. 

They had come together in the dark, those short few days ago, and Tiresias had no doubt that they would go their own ways in the darkness as well.  How they would leave was still to be determined, but as the grim, private conversation went on in the corner, he doubted that it would be an enjoyable departure.

They had taken a considerable risk that day.   Gözde had made that clear to them all from the start.  But while the other men might accept that in their hearts and with their minds, none of them had been chosen for their blinding intellect.  In their collective line of work, trust was a luxury that none could afford; the best that their leader could hope for was hardened, unflinching competence.  Most of their group had been selected for their ability to follow orders.  They had judged their success by their spoils, taken Gözde at his word that that was all that they had come for, and set to celebrating their newfound riches and newly ruthless reputations.  If any of them looked up from their carousing for long enough to notice the quiet, somber conversation in the corner, they didn't have the nerve to show it.

The news was grim.  It was obvious that their plan hadn't worked.  They had taken a risk by moving today and moving so directly.  The aristocrat, Vedat had pleaded, begged, but insisted he knew nothing of what they had come for.  Tempers had flared; wands had been drawn, and it had become necessary to finish what they had started.  But even after the house had been ransacked and the warm bodies had been left to cool, none of them could feel easy. 

The soft merchant, in his last and desperate moments, had tried to beg for his family's life.  Let them live, he swore, and he'd see to it that their trail went cold.  Their trail was surely cold now, but it had come at a cost.  Vedat and his men had not expected them, not on this day of days, but by moving so abruptly, they had given themselves away, and their lack of success meant that someone else had moved even sooner.  The obvious conclusion was left unsaid, though their whispered words circled around it.  The merchant hadn't had what they had come for, but he wouldn't have moved it without good reason.

Someone had given them away.

Tiresias let his eyes play across the basement as the conversation quieted.  Trust here was hard won and rarely deserved.  The mysterious traitor could easily have been one of Gözde's lieutenants, or even their leader himself, but it could just as easily be one of the other men who had joined in their mission.  Most of the crew were still engrossed in their treasure, but one of the younger man sat apart, slightly on the periphery.  As Tiresias looked over, they locked gazes for the barest of seconds before the younger man dropped his eyes, glancing down.

A hard, suspicious feeling passed through him.  Tiresias glanced across the circle, met Gözde's gaze, and then stepped away from the smaller group.  Breaking into an easy saunter, the Greek wizard picked his way back to the rest of their band, keeping to the edge and apart from the carousing.

The young man's name came to him as he reached his side.  Bünyamin. 

Tiresias glanced to him, cool and measuring, and then down at his cup.  "Only water?" he asked casually.  "That's not fit for a celebration."

It was dark, so there could hardly be shadows in this place. And yet Dreogan felt something heavy and dark fall across his shoulders as the man approached. He shifted his shoulder blades uncomfortably, shifting the drink and putting it down on the unfinished ground, frowning, trying to decide whether the attention was good or, more likely, ominous. Dreogan felt his pulse in his throat, cringed at the knots there that made it painful to swallow.

Yeter, one of the younger men in the group -- probably Dreogan's own age -- looked up, eyes widening at the attention Dreogan was receiving, pursing his lips as he watched Katsaros approach to speak to the new one. Envious. Dree would have changed places in an instant. But he did not have an instant. No; in fact, Katsaros was speaking to him now.

"Only water? That's not fit for a celebration."

Dreogan's mind sharpened, focussing in its fear on each word. This was why he did not drink; so he could think with crystalline precision. So that he could, if necessary, Apparate. And he needed every possible shred of concentration; the skill was recently learned. But he could not tell Katsaros any of this. It was best, he decided, not to be candid, not to be tough. Best to be admiring, simple, and -- because he could not hide it -- afraid. They could scorn a coward, but they would hang a traitor. Of the two -- and Dreogan felt that his conduct had led him to be either the one or the other -- his greatest hope lay in cowardice.

"I don't have much cause for celebration . . ." Dreogan said, looking down. "I only carried away one item for one-hundred twenty-lira. . . and that only because I helped Yeter and he said he would split some of his." It was the truth, probably no less than this man and the other lieutenants knew. Dreogan had not taken anything himself, but he had blocked a hex aimed at Yeter--which surely would have done him great harm if not deflected. Yeter was gracious enough to admit this and promised to work together with him in the future. Dreogan believed he would, so long as it was convenient.

He looked up at Katsaros, trying to veil his dislike of the man but to allow the fear and imbue a sense of veneration for him. "If. . . If I could be like you -- you and Gözde . . ." He shifted slightly to the side on the ground, actually inviting the man with his body language to join him. Because not to do so would be to appear guarded. If it came to it, there was Apparition. Dreogan hoped they had not guarded this place against it. "I am good at veiling charms, though. And defenses. Next time--" Oh, God, he'd said it. "--I can help there." He tried to keep his voice eager. To hide the shudder of there ever being another day like today. He looked up at the man to find his face stony and rigid. Dreogan rubbed the back of his neck as he reached out with the other hand for his water.

Taking a swallow made the throbbing of his pulse stop in his throat. His breath, also, stopped as he waited for the man's response, muscles taught as bowstrings.

The discussion around them began to dull as a heavy silence slowly took hold over the group, though the gap in conversation was anything but peaceful.  It was as if the emotion had been drawn away like waters receding from the shore, absent only in anticipation of a coming furious crash that few had expected and no one could yet comprehend.
 
Though his words had been even, the sentiment behind them had been anything but.  The rough alliance within the group had already been broken, that their loose brotherhood was doomed to the breach.  If Gözde himself had not yet grasped that inevitable conclusion, Tiresias knew that he would soon.  When things fell apart, as they had, the center could not hold.  The band’s mad quest had not truly been for the jeweled crowns hurled by kings that had been cast, now forgotten, about the floor.  Their sudden, bewildering failure meant that their ways would soon diverge.  The danger had grown to be too great.  Risk balanced heavily against quickly diminishing odds of success, and men in their line of work did not take such chances.
 
The only question that remained was when they would break, and how.  Tiresias knew that the break must happen on his terms, not theirs.  Gözde had led them to failure, to the edge of the abyss and even beyond depending on how the next sorry few hours played out.  Tiresias suspected that the wily Turk had already realized the danger that he would soon be in as the ruined leader.  The building crisis was a cresting wave of rebellion that would soon surge against him.  Gözde would quickly seize any chance to define the dialogue for it would end in his ouster if it was not carefully commanded and controlled.
 
Such a dialogue could be turned in any direction, set against any one man.  Gözde, desperate, might nudge it against an old foe, a treasured friend, a raw recruit or a trusted lieutenant.  If it were unleashed without measure, there was no telling which way the wave would break.
 
And so Tiresias had seized it first.  He had never been one to watch and wait.
 
The Greek wizard was all too aware of the eyes on his back, of the slow stilling of the bragging and clamor that had gone on about the circle.  Young Bünyamin, for all his tripping tongue and hurried excuses, was almost too easy a target.  Once the others realized the extent of what had gone wrong, they would be quick to jump into the torrential tide of blame; the original accuser could fall to suspicion just as easily as the accused.  The balance here was precarious.  Everything could tip at the slightest current of conjecture.  If he misplayed his words, Tiresias was as much at risk as Bünyamin and Gözde.
 
He couldn’t tell whether the boy knew it.  Apprehension was visible in his posture, dropping his gaze and tensing his shoulders, but that didn’t mean that the young man was aware of the hazard.  His agitation could have easily been embarrassment and worry at his failure.  Tiresias smirked, ignoring the unspoken invitation to sit.  He would not join with Bünyamin and share his weakness, not now, not with so many eyes on him and so much at stake.
 
“Veiling charms,” he repeated, a smirk tugging at his lips.  “That’s good.  Work at it and you and your friend Yeter might yet together make a full man.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw fury shoot across Yeter’s expression, saw the other young man look away, anger and shame intermingling on his face at being called out on his temporary ally’s behalf.  Tiresias ignored him.  He was focused like a hawk on Bünyamin.
 
“It’s a shame,” he said quietly.  This time, he made no effort to keep his tone light.  “All the fury of today and you have nothing to show for it but one hundred and twenty lira. It makes one wonder why you went through all the trouble together, you and Yeter.”

Dreogan had only to look at the sneer on Yeter's face, the anger, and the physical separation that happened as Yeter broke eye contact and looked away -- to see exactly what was happening. Katsaros was turning the others -- quite literally -- against him. Dreogan didn't know why, but it was enough: he felt a jolt of energy, anger, desperation and he stood up to speak to Katsaros levelly. Because being supine would mean waiting, curled and crouched, for another kick with the boot.

Even at full height, Dreogan in his adolescence was hardly equal to Katsaros. Dreogan lifted his chin and clenched one fist, keeping the other open, should he need to reach for his wand. Dreogan did feel very much half a man, as Katsaros had said. But this would not stop him. If it did, he would be cut down further still. Dreogan felt the slow creep, the rising floodwaters of panic fill his stomach, then his throat; it seemed likely to drown him.

"Well. . ." he began, voice smaller than he would have liked. "At least then," Dreogan said, a flash of defiance in his eyes, a thought occurring to him, "I will be him and he will be me. It can't be said that I only serve myself. I risk my life with the group. We work together and celebrate together. What I have is not my own -- it comes from the group. The group is all I have. I guess that's. . ." He needed to sound firm. He started again. "That is why I've gone to the trouble. That one hundred and twenty lira is not all I have." He looked at Yeter, eyes focused on him and only him. "I have Yeter's respect. I saved his life, and he has shared with me. I have volunteered to serve with others; that was our pledge to one another."

Of course, Dreogan was far from certain about this: Yeter's trust and respect, Dreogan's own zeal for the group . . . Further, he was certain he did not wish to continue risking his life with these men. But for now, he could not say this. For now, he had risked his life with them. For now, he did not have anything more. His mother was a world away in England. His younger brother, safe in Israel. And he? He was here. Alone. While Dreogan knew very well where he wanted to be, he was far less certain of where he currently stood. He felt himself on a precipice, standing, but waiting to be pushed.

The fellow apprentice still had his back to him. But now standing, Dreogan could catch a glimpse of the side of his face and on that face he likewise saw an uncertainty: whereas Yeter had been certain before, he now wavered. Dreogan felt unequal to the task of debating with Katsaros, and more unmatched still in fighting him physically or magically, but he sensed now that this was what people were waiting for. In this world, they waited to side with the winner.

This was a duel. One that Dreogan had not sought and one in which he was not familiar with the rules. But he recalled the most constant feedback in his duelling course: "You defend admirably, but you lose every time. You forget to riposte." To block a blow required 100% accuracy. An opponent, however, needed only a 1% window to jump in on. As a defender, the odds were not in your favour. Dreogan jutted his jaw forward as he thought a moment.

The hush in Gözde's corner. The furtive glances. The heavy silence and hawk-like eyes, ravenous, cavernous, fixed upon him. What did this man wish to glut himself on, he wondered? With what ought he to fill the wide-mouthed silence?

"And you, Katsaros? Did you get what you wanted today? You are not celebrating with us." He bent down, picking up his cup. He pulled out his wand and tapped the rim. The water became red. "Wine. For you," he said quietly. "Why don't you drink?"

It was as if they were circling about each other, turning and turning in a widening gyre.  The dance was a familiar one.  As the fish realized that the net was about to close around it, it began to struggle desperately, to gasp for the sea.  But these death throes did more harm than good: they convinced no one of innocence, buried no bodies, granted no reprieves.  Once the tide of suspicion came rushing in, it overwhelmed any hope of escape.
 
Even if his suspicions of Bünyamin hadn't already been growing, the boy's sudden shift in attitude would have caught a distrustful eye.  Where he had been nervous, suddenly he was outspoken; where he had been alone, now he claimed to be a part of something bigger than himself.  Tiresias had seen it all before.  Once cornered, the disconcerted victim grew more and more desperate, jumping from one strategy to the next with growing speed in a bid to prove his innocence.  If the young man had continued to act ashamed, had hidden behind his failure, Tiresias might have been more willing to take his words at face value.  But even then, Bünyamin would have been too useful as a scapegoat to be forgiven.
 
It was sad and sorry to think that any of the men here would be willing to accept their group as anything more than what it was.  They had come together in the darkness and would go the same way; this was no more a band of brothers than it was a story that a good man would teach to his son.  There was no loyalty, not in the hallowed darkness.  They were here, each alone.  When the wicks on the oil lamps finally went out, when even the last flickering light vanished beyond the precipice of darkness, Tiresias knew that no group would remain for young Bünyamin to profess his loyalty to.
 
But now, the lights still flickered weakly, and Bünyamin was not the only young man here.  His words brought an inherent danger with them, an appeal to the better nature of the men like Yeter who were still too youthful to accept that no such natures could exist.  If such words went unanswered, it could prompt the many to rise against the strong.
 
An alliance formed like that would never last long, but it might last long enough.
 
Tiresias had nearly been ready to rise to the provocation, to strike Bünyamin down harshly with his words, when the young man spoke again.  This time, his speech left no question that a challenge had indeed been made.  The Greek wizard's eyes narrowed, and he fixed like a hawk on the younger man.

Silently, he reached out to take the cup from Bünyamin.  There was no talking now, no boasts; if a feather had fallen, everyone in the room would have heard it.  And with his quiet words, Bünyamin had thrown down something much more substantial than a feather.

Without a word, without giving any of them time to question the exchange or to let their sentiments waiver, he flung the contents of the cup back at the younger man's face.

"You ask me why I don't drink?!" Tiresias snarled, making a grab for Bünyamin's neck.  Even standing, he was not near to his height, so he shoved at his chest to knock him backwards.  "Why don't you tell them?"

"We've been betrayed!" he growled at the other men, raising his voice so that it rang out across the room, loud and deep with anger and fury.  "Someone told the merchant that we were coming!  And now they'll be set on our trail," he said bitterly, eyes dark with hatred as he met Bünyamin's.  Not relenting.  Not forgiving.  "Too bad that you're the only one that they're going to find.  You and your group."

Katsaros moved not quick, not slow, but like water: surging smoothly. He drew in with the luxurious slowness of a panther. Dree did his best not to flinch as the older man took the drink from out of his grasp. And he didn't -- not even as the wine his his face. He didn't wipe his face as it rolled down in rivulets. He blinked once, twice, and narrowed his gaze at Katsaros, determined to make a stand. Or a speech.

He'd not expected the hand to return, this time for his throat. Dreogan stumbled back but not quickly enough. He was now forced back. He managed to save himself the indignity and danger of falling -- it would all be over then. He could see it: them falling like hyenas upon a carcass.

He saw it all clearly now. The road laid before him. To capitulate would mean to admit guilt for a betrayal he had not committed. To fight would mean to die. Even if he won against Katsaros, he'd lost the trust of the whole. He would lose. He lost the moment it was Katsaros' word against his own. Katsaros was brave; he was feared. He was strong. He was older. He was indispensable. Dreogan was none of those things. They did not see -- could not see that between the two of them, it would be Katsaros -- not he, quiet, young, green Bünyamin -- that would be able to successfully accomplish the level of betrayal Katsaros laid at his feet now. Placed on his shoulders. Hung about his neck.

He took two more steps back, wand held tensely at his side, thumb nail digging into the smooth surface. "I would never have betrayed you." His face felt cold; it felt like stone. More loudly, he repeated, "I would never have betrayed you!" But after this? After seeing the brutalities of today, after locking eyes with Katsaros and seeing nothing but burning malice and icy calculation, he would do what he could to never look into a dying boy's face again. To ensure that Gözde, Katsaros, or even Yeter would never touch an innocent again.

As his conviction solidified, he vanished. With a resounding crack of a car backfiring.