PLEASE READ THE FOREWORD!
| enemies to lovers | dagger to throat | morally grey oc | slow-burn | dark themes | gore | violence | toxicity | corruption arc | golden era | mythology references | dark fantasy | 18+
Ariadne smirked at him, staring at b...
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𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞-𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙
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𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐙 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 back against the cold brick side of a bar's alleyway wedged discreetly between dilapidated buildings; their walls chipped and eaten away by time and weather. She had no guns, no knives, no weapons on her hands at the time. She was only waiting, knowing that time would be her greatest weapon.
Drip.
Drip.
The constant noise continued as rain assaulted the roofs and guttering of towering buildings before tumbling to the ground and forming puddles of murky water. Water slashed against Ariadne's ankles.
As the puddles overflowed, causing rivulets of water to run into each other, a tremendous bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, and the very earth seemed to tremble with its thundering voice; lightning caressed Ariadne's profile.
For hours the great sheets of water had been pelting into the earth mercilessly, driving more misery into an already hopeless place. These were dark times, and many people rushed to get to their homes. Muggles and wizards alike did not like to be out when the darkness of the night rode in. After the destruction of London Bridge, everyone in Britain had become wary.
Steadfast in its intensity, the rain distorted the orange glow of a streetlamp ahead, causing it to almost seem ethereal in such empty blackness.
This was Ariadne's favorite part, the waiting, the not knowing. It brought some excitement to her that should have never been there in the first place. As the night wore on, and the veil of darkness began to give way to diluted sunlight, the downpour of the rain lessened somewhat, though, at such an early hour and an overcast sky, the perilous atmosphere lingered.
A discarded newspaper lay drowned in a puddle, its wealth of carefully written words smudged and unreadable. Ariadne could hear light droplets falling delicately on a rusted tin can, and then she listened to a mighty rumble, the remnants of a storm passing. The rain reduced even further, and a rat crawled near Ariadne's feet filled with mud and dirt, squeaking aggressively as other rodents ventured hastily from their hideaways.
As she leaned against the wall, her hand instinctively felt her thigh, where her blade would be fastened, but the knife was nowhere to be seen. She didn't want to use it today because she was afraid the woman would see it and flee too quickly for her to catch up. After all, you didn't need a weapon at all when you were born one. She'd have to do this the old-fashioned manner, which was fine with her. Ariadne didn't indulge very frequently, but she couldn't deny that there was something pleasurable about using her hands.
