Faster than the human eye could properly comprehend, a dozen wizards apparated into the study.
They surrounded Igor instantly in a tight protective formation.
All of them were tall, heavily built men clad in dark robes embroidered proudly with the sigil of House Karkaroff. Some carried wands already raised while others held enchanted blades etched with old Slavic runes. They looked less like guards and more like soldiers bred solely for war.
"Igor—" one of them started sharply.
But before Igor could order them to stand down—
They attacked.
Spells exploded from every direction at once.
The study was instantly flooded with blinding flashes of crimson, violet, and silver as curses, hexes, and dark magic tore through the air toward the single man seated calmly in the chair.
At the same time, several guards grabbed Igor and pulled him backward, shielding him as they hurried him away from the center of the battle to prevent him from being caught in the crossfire.
Igor's mind reeled.
This was completely out of control.
Even if he ordered them to stop now, there was no going back from this.
No lord of an ancient noble house—especially not Abarax Malfoy—would tolerate an attack like this and simply walk away.
Someone was going to die here.
Either Malfoy…
Or them.
Igor moved immediately.
Years of training overtook panic.
He cast blocking charms throughout the study, sealing communications and preventing any signals from being sent outside the mansion. Layer after layer of containment magic wrapped around the room.
He wanted Malfoy isolated.
No reinforcements.
No outside interference.
But somewhere deep inside his spiraling thoughts came another horrifying realization.
Was he trapping Malfoy—
Or trapping himself inside with him?
His breathing quickened.
He immediately reinforced the barriers around his mother's chambers next, weaving protective wards strong enough to keep even stray dark magic away from her rooms. Whatever happened here, she would remain untouched.
His guards were among the finest magical soldiers in Eastern Europe.
Men trained under the ministries of Russia, Serbia, and Bosnia.
Veterans.
Masters of dark magic.
Killers.
Surely that would be enough.
Surely.
If he simply waited this out, victory would be his.
Perhaps he could even present Malfoy's head to the Dark Lord himself.
The thought should have comforted him.
But it didn't.
Instead, Abarax's words kept echoing inside his skull like poison.
No noble house with dignity would kneel.
Too clean means something is hidden.
Why has he not claimed his seat yet?
Igor's thoughts became uneven.
Why hadn't the Dark Lord officially claimed legitimacy in the Wizengamot?
Why delay?
If he truly was Lord Slytherin, why remain in the shadows?
No.
No.
These were doubts planted by Malfoy.
That silver-tongued devil was known for this.
That was why people feared letting Lord Malfoy speak too long—because by the end of the conversation, you no longer knew which thoughts were yours and which ones he had carefully placed inside your mind.
Igor clenched his fists tightly.
He should not question his lord.
He shouldn't.
He couldn't.
And yet—
The doubt remained.
Small.
Sharp.
Festering.
Meanwhile—
At the very center of the chaos—
Abarax Malfoy finally stood up from his chair.
Completely unharmed.
The spells that should have struck him floated motionless around him in the air like trapped stars, frozen by sheer magical force.
The room fell silent.
Even the guards hesitated.
Abarax slowly adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as though mildly inconvenienced.
Then his cold blue eyes lifted toward them all.
And he smiled.
Not the charming smile the public adored.
Not the beautiful smile that won political debates and charmed noble ladies.
No.
This smile belonged to something ancient.
Something cruel.
Something that had finally been given an excuse.
"Well then," Abarax said softly, his voice carrying through the ruined study with terrifying calm.
"Now this is just disrespectful."
Abarax slowly took off his coat.
He could have vanished it with magic in a second, but instead he deliberately removed it piece by piece before placing it neatly over the couch.
It was intentional.
Everything Abarax Malfoy did was intentional.
He had always been a master of power plays. He enjoyed making people feel as though they were merely puppets dancing along strings he controlled. The sheer casualness of his actions enraged the guards further.
Because in the wizarding world, not taking a fight seriously was an insult of the highest order.
To dismiss an opponent so openly was to declare them beneath you.
Any sane person would have questioned why a man standing alone against fourteen trained combat wizards was not afraid—especially after casually stopping all their attacks and smiling through it all.
But these men were veterans.
They had fought arrogant men before.
And arrogant men always bled in the end.
"Then again," Abarax drawled as he finally pulled out his wand, "the Slavs were never particularly respectful toward their guests, were they?"
The instant his wand appeared, the room exploded back into motion.
Spells shot toward him from every direction.
But Abarax's shields rose faster.
Curses rebounded violently, two of them ricocheting straight into the guards attempting to flank him from behind.
There were fourteen guards in the room.
And Abarax—
Abarax was thrilled.
Finally.
Something to break.
Igor might have been easy to manipulate, but he had at least done one thing correctly—he had gathered competent men.
Abarax flicked his wrist sharply.
Twin daggers materialized in his hands, silver blades gleaming under the dim chandelier light.
His favorites.
He moved.
Two guards died before they even realized he had crossed the distance.
One dagger buried itself deep into a throat.
The second plunged directly into another man's chest, piercing straight through the heart.
Abarax didn't even pause to watch them fall.
Two curses flew toward him.
He deflected both.
Another guard lunged from the side with a blade aimed at his neck—
Abarax caught the man's wrist, twisted hard enough for bone to crack, then snapped his neck with terrifying ease before hurling the corpse across the room like discarded trash.
"Ты ублюдок!" one of the guards shouted furiously.
"Well," Abarax mused while throwing counter-curses toward two advancing attackers, "normally I would try to understand what you are saying. I am a very respectful man."
The curses struck one guard in the shoulder and another directly in the knee, sending both crashing down.
"But," Abarax continued pleasantly, "I am fairly certain you were insulting me."
Then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He rushed the shouting guard directly.
The man wielded a beautiful Slavic sword glowing with ancient runes, clearly enchanted through old blood rituals.
Interesting.
Abarax almost admired it.
Almost.
The guard swung.
Abarax sidestepped smoothly while casting a shield behind himself without even looking, blocking another sneak attack from the rear.
Honestly.
These guards were obsessed with attacking from behind.
No etiquette whatsoever.
With a sharp twist, Abarax disarmed the swordsman and ripped the blade from his hands.
Then—
He stabbed him in the neck.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
With brutal fury.
The entire room froze for a second.
Blood splattered across Abarax's face.
And he laughed.
Not loudly.
Not manically.
Just a soft, delighted laugh that somehow sounded far worse.
The dying guard collapsed twitching onto the floor.
Abarax turned slowly toward the remaining men, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his face.
His cold blue eyes gleamed almost unnaturally bright now.
"Well then," he said with an eerie smile,
"Who's next?"
Within barely two minutes, the study had turned into a slaughterhouse.
The scent of blood and burnt magic hung thick in the air.
Bodies lay scattered across the once elegant room—some motionless, some still twitching faintly from lingering curses. Broken furniture, shattered glass, and scorch marks covered every surface. The rich carpets of the Karkaroff estate were soaked crimson.
And the most horrifying part of it all—
It had happened so quickly.
So effortlessly.
Igor had barely managed to process what was happening.
He had been focusing on maintaining the barriers and protective charms around the mansion. Then his thoughts had begun spiraling again, circling around every poisonous question Abarax had planted into his mind.
Why hadn't the Dark Lord claimed his seat officially?
Why remain hidden?
Why—
A soft sound interrupted his thoughts.
Footsteps.
Igor's head snapped upward.
Abarax Malfoy was walking toward him.
Slowly.
Casually.
As though he had merely finished a mildly entertaining conversation rather than massacred fourteen trained combat wizards.
"What's going on in that head of yours, Igor?" Abarax asked lightly.
His voice was smooth.
Gentle even.
Which somehow made it far more terrifying.
"I do hope you've made your decision by now." He glanced around the ruined study with mild amusement. "And I must say… the Karkaroffs truly are terrible at entertaining guests."
Igor jerked backward instinctively, stumbling so hard he fell onto the floor.
His breathing turned uneven.
Because Abarax looked—
Beautiful.
Terrifyingly so.
Blood had splattered across his face and stained the sleeves of his black shirt, yet somehow it only enhanced him further. He looked less like a man and more like something divine that had wandered far too close to sin.
An angel moments before falling.
His platinum hair remained perfectly in place despite the battle, his expression calm and composed while death surrounded him like a throne.
Not even panting.
Not even strained.
And that—
That frightened Igor more than the bloodshed itself.
No sane person should have enjoyed it.
Abarax crouched down before him slowly, resting one arm lazily over his knee.
"Now then," he said softly, his cold blue eyes locking onto Igor's terrified green ones, "shall we continue our discussion?"