RIDDLE. TOM RIDDLE

❛ there's no good and evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it ❜ ☾ Trembling hands rummage through every surface clumped with dust for a flask of ink that isn't splotched with blood. Under the battered paperbacks and crumpled scrolls, a crystal object rolls out of its hideout and crashes against feathery pillows. Her heavy gaze narrowed, following the blue palette of light. Don't listen, her mind plead, but the chilling, raspy voice of an old seer already echoed the fragile walls. Prophecies. Such delicate pieces of uncertain speculation, a mystery to humanity. Millions of them laid untouched, sealed away where fragile spirits can't reach. Even the most powerful sorcerer wasn't immune to its maddening nature, not even he could tamper or taint such raw finality. She, however, had grown tired of walking in a path constrained by predictions. The orb was violently thrown against the wall with the sheer force of her bruised hand, shattered fragments evaporated into dust, darkening the room. It was nearly an hour later that the woman left. Tear stained face and a cracked wand, alone in the cold winter night, her crimson lips tugged upwards as the midnight bell rang in the distance. Clutching a golden trinket against her chest, a faint whisper was engulfed by the crescent wind and carried away. "Happy birthday, Tom."