The Dark Lady's Guide to Villainy [Book 1 Complete] [Dark Lord, School, Romance]

The winter in Moscow was a living thing now. It came early, and it knew Lucian's name.

He stood in the restricted area just below the spire of the Moscow State University main building, watching snowflakes swirl in patterns that defied meteorology. Each crystal caught the pale November light and held it too long, glowing like scattered diamonds against the gray sky. The cold bit deeper than it should have—not the typical dry cold of Moscow winter, but something wounded and strange that responded to the magic bleeding through reality's torn seams.

Lucian's breath formed clouds that lingered in the air, crystallizing into impossible geometric formations before dissolving. Since Julian's ritual, since the Integration, since coming to this strange human world, even his unconscious expressions of power had taken on new complexity. The frost patterns spreading across the metal railing beneath his gloved hands told stories in languages that hadn't existed a week ago.

Below, Moscow was adapting to its new magical reality with characteristic Russian stoicism, which meant the bureaucracy had immediately begun categorizing magic into official and unofficial varieties. Vendors of Old Arbat hawked 'genuine pre-Integration matryoshka dolls' alongside newer versions that painted themselves based on the holder's mood. Though, city inspectors were already debating whether emotional responsiveness constituted unlicensed psychological services requiring additional permits. The Metro system had developed its own opinion about optimal routes, occasionally sending trains to destinations that passengers hadn't requested but apparently needed.

Government buildings flickered between architectural styles as their enchanted facades struggled to maintain official dignity. One moment displaying the gilded excess of Imperial palaces, the next the brutal concrete functionalism of Soviet monuments, uncomfortably switching through versions that reeked of cheap material replacements and stolen money only to shift to something entirely otherworldly: crystalline spires that defied earthly physics, walls that breathed with organic rhythm, windows that opened onto skies that had never hung over Moscow. The buildings seemed unable to decide which version of the authoritarian approach to embody, cycling through centuries of inhuman power structures as if the magic itself was sorting through Russia's complicated relationship with control.

It was, Lucian reflected, precisely the sort of bureaucratic chaos that would have amused Mo under different circumstances. It would have probably challenged her to find the hidden pattern, the exploitable loophole, the way to turn systemic dysfunction into a change for good.

His phone buzzed—a message from their group chat that he'd been avoiding for three days. Mo's latest update from Manchester: "Found a hotspot in Manchester."

Nyx confirmed what Lucian was observing in Russia with his message: "System ignoring me as before. My magic still works."

Before Lucian was able to reply, another message came from Mo: "Any distinctive patterns on your end?"

Patterns... As if the transformation of reality could be reduced to academic analysis. Though perhaps that was exactly Mo's strength—her ability to find practical solutions while reality crumbled. His admiration for her strategic mind hadn't diminished, even after watching her cross boundaries that should have remained sacred.

Dr. Winters' voice echoed in his memory: Growth requires both individual authenticity and compassionate understanding of others' journeys. Lucian was still learning to balance those insights with the frustration he felt toward his friends' different approaches to crisis management.

Lucian slowly moved around the spire, his gaze drawn upward to where transformed snowflakes caught and scattered light from the grand star. The metal gleamed with deceptive warmth—brass, perhaps, or gold-plated steel. But as he drew closer, winter's honest touch revealed the truth: painted glass, nothing more. The illusion crumbled under scrutiny, like so much else in this country, where surfaces often mismatched the depths.

Always peel back the layers, his father had once told him about navigating politics. Sometimes you discover gold beneath the gilt. More often, you find only clever rot. Somehow, it was very fitting to the environment he was finding himself in right now.

At the northern face, movement below drew his attention—figures clustered around what appeared to be a memorial, their breath rising in impossible spirals that defied the wind's direction. Light fractured through the overcooled mist like prisms through ice. Lucian began his descent through the university's corridors, frost blooming and dissolving along the walls in rhythm with his pulse. Curiosity warred with the deeper chill that had settled in his bones since the Academy's interrogation, creating patterns that spoke of questions he wasn't ready to answer.

Tell us about your family's ice-spiking traditions, the Academy investigator had demanded, her stylus poised over a form that would determine Lucian's culpability in Julian's dimensional breach. How does a Frostbrook heir justify the gentle approach when your bloodline once froze kingdoms for sport? Did your... artistic inclinations make you blind to your friend's radical intentions?

The question had stung not because it was unfair, but because it forced him to articulate something he'd only recently understood himself. His family's power had always been used as a weapon—precise, brutal, designed to instill fear through beauty's corruption. But Lucian had discovered that winter's gift could serve creation rather than destruction, that ice flowers could bloom where ice spikes once pierced. The investigator seemed to think Lucian's gentleness had made him naïve, unable to recognize the violence brewing beneath Julian's academic facade. As if choosing beauty over brutality somehow diminished one's ability to perceive darkness in others.

Every generation has the choice to redefine what their bloodline becomes, he'd told the investigator, his voice carrying the measured cadence that made even gentle words cut like winter wind. I choose evolution over violence. Julian chose otherwise—and judging by your line of questioning, his approach seems more aligned with your institutional preferences.

The investigator had paused, her stylus hovering over parchment as frost patterns spread across Lucian's sleeve—delicate, beautiful, but sharp enough to draw blood. For a moment, the temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Then she cleared her throat, made a careful notation, and redirected to safer ground: Julian's research, whether Lucian had known of the academic assistant's plans for "magical democratization."

Those questions had been easier to answer with honesty—no, he hadn't known. None of them had truly understood what Julian intended until reality itself began to fracture.

But now, after a couple of days in Moscow, the investigation had forced Lucian to confront the uncomfortable parallels between his family's legacy and Russia's own relationship with power. Ice-spiking and political purges. Frozen kingdoms and frozen dissent. The same brutality flowing through both bloodlines—magical and geographical—like permafrost through soil, ancient and unyielding, shaping everything that tried to grow above it.

Now, as he approached the gathered crowd, Lucian saw what had drawn them: the memorial plaque for student and professor victims of the Great Patriotic War seemed to develop a soul of its own. It looked like it tried to defy everything the students from the nearby Math and Physics Departments were taught. As if projected in multiple dimensions, the list now contained not only the old names, which were etched here for decades, but an almost never-ending register of people lost to the political repressions and purges.

What Lucian already recognized as the System's messaging floated around the memorial:

EMOTIONAL RESONANCE DETECTED
HISTORICAL TRAUMA: NOT INTERNALIZED
MEMORIAL STATUS: ENHANCED
WARNING: MAGICAL SATURATION APPROACHING CRITICAL LEVELS

An elderly woman stood closest to the plaque, tears freezing on her cheeks as she whispered names that Lucian couldn't quite hear. Around her, younger visitors looked confused and frightened as the same error messages that plagued Earth's new magic users flickered above their heads.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

MAGICAL INTEGRATION DETECTED
ERROR: INSUFFICIENT HERITAGE DETECTED
COMPENSATING WITH ENVIRONMENTAL ABSORPTION
LEVEL 1 ABILITIES UNLOCKED

But unlike the reports from other cities, the magic here felt different—heavier, more purposeful. The memorial wasn't just a hotspot; it was a focal point where emotional significance and magical energy intersected. The System Julian had created was trying to process not just individual magical potential, but collective memory, historical pain, the weight of generations.

Julian hadn't just democratized magic. He'd weaponized trauma itself, turning every site of historical suffering into a magical evolution location. The question was whether this was intentional design or catastrophic oversight, and Lucian's investigation had just uncovered evidence that the distinction might not matter.

He approached carefully, his training from aristocratic upbringing blending with newer insights from therapy. A young man near the plaque was staring at his hands in confusion as sparks of white light danced between his fingers.

"Proshu proscheniya," Lucian said in Russian, his formal accent marking him as foreign but educated. "Excuse me. Can you also feel the memorial's influence?"

The man looked up, relief flooding his features even as confusion clouded his eyes. "You can see it too? I thought I was…" He gestured helplessly at the error messages still hovering above his head, then at the glowing plaque itself. "Why is this memorial... doing this? My grandmother always said the old stories about mass arrests were exaggerated by the foreign agents, but these lists, they never end... This isn't the foreign agent influence, isn't it…?" He trailed off, staring at names that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

Lucian studied the text with growing concern. The System was attributing functions and abilities based on environmental factors rather than personal aptitude—but more troubling still, it was awakening echoes of suppressed history. In all his aristocratic education spanning multiple realms, he'd never encountered magic that fed on collective memory like this. He and his friends were navigating waters deeper than any chart had mapped.

The man approached the monument with reverent hesitation, pressing his palm against the cold stone as if listening for voices trapped within the cold granite. The System text above his head flickered frantically, letters reshaping themselves like ice crystals seeking new patterns. He jerked back, startled.

"Ne sochtite za naglost'..." Lucian began. "Forgive my presumption, but the magic just assigned you something, yes? What classification did it choose?"

The man stared at his own hands as frost patterns bloomed across his palms—uncertain, imperfect, but undeniably real. "Level 1 Frost Weaver." His voice carried the weight of disbelief. "What does such a thing even mean?"

The revelation struck Lucian like winter wind through summer leaves. Had his proximity influenced the assignment? Was the System simply copying available magical signatures and grafting them onto unprepared humans? The implications crystallized in his mind like breath on glass—beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

"It means you've been touched by something unprecedented," Lucian said, each word chosen with the precision his upbringing demanded. "The magic here awakens what lies dormant within us. May I?"

When the stranger nodded, Lucian pressed their palms together. A connection sparked between them—raw, unguided power seeking form like water seeking its course. The man's magic felt like an echo of winter's song, distant but growing stronger.

"The cold lives inside me now," the man whispered, wonder threading through his voice. "Like carrying a winter lake in my chest."

Lucian's expression warmed despite the frost gathering around them. The poetry of it reminded him of his own awakening—that moment when power first responded to heart rather than will.

"Magic often feels like weather made personal," Lucian agreed, glancing at the memorial's rhythmic silver pulse. "But why here? Why now?"

The man's eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "You're not Russian. Are you some Western agent?"

Lucian's accent had marked him as foreign, though not quite British or American—a small mercy in the current political climate. At least he wouldn't be associated with the Anglo-Saxon influence. The man wavered between caution and desperate need for answers, before something in Lucian's gentle manner tipped the scales.

"My great-grandfather," he said finally, voice dropping to confession's cadence. "That was in the other part of the family, not through the grandmother I mentioned earlier. Taken in 1937. I was reading his name among these floating words when the change began." He gestured toward the monument.

Understanding sparkled in Lucian's mind. The System wasn't randomly distributing power—it was weaving connections between present souls and historical wounds, amplifying the magic of memory itself. Places that held collective pain were becoming conduits for Julian's grand experiment.

Which meant the chaos followed patterns after all. Patterns guided by human psychology, by the weight of unhealed grief, by history's stubborn refusal to stay buried. More predictable than random chance, perhaps—but far more dangerous than anyone had dared imagine.

His phone buzzed again—another message from Mo. "System patterns showing historical trauma sites as primary hotspots. Government response escalating. Nyx demanded a meeting urgently and I agree."

Lucian typed back quickly: "Moscow memorial sites showing enhanced magical saturation. System amplifying emotional connections to location. People gaining magic based on environmental factors, not only personal aptitude. And there's more… So, all of us?"

Then he looked back at the confused Russian man, still struggling with newfound frost magic. "I'm going to give you my contact information," Lucian said. "And I'm going to connect you with some people who understand what's happening better than our governments do. In the meantime, think warm thoughts. The magic responds to emotion, and until you learn proper control, it's safer to err on the side of gentleness."

The man nodded eagerly, clearly desperate for any guidance in a situation that made no sense within his previous understanding of reality.

"You would be wise," Lucian said gently, watching ice crystals dance between his fingers, "to learn the winter of your great-grandfather's story. Trees that know their roots survive the harshest storms, while those with shallow foundations fall to any wind the powerful choose to blow. Memory, like snow, preserves what lies beneath—and those who understand what frost has covered are less easily frozen by new winters."

The man nodded, deep in thought, while Lucian shared his contact information and basic meditation techniques for emotional regulation. He found himself reflecting on how natural this felt—teaching, guiding, using his aristocratic education to help someone navigate unprecedented circumstances. His family had raised him to wield power over others, but perhaps true power lay in helping others develop their own capabilities.

Dr. Winters' therapeutic insights merged with his diplomatic training and magical expertise, creating something new: not the brutal efficiency of traditional Frostbrook leadership, but something more collaborative. Something that honored both individual growth and collective well-being.

This Earth road trip was becoming more and more educational for Lucian. And he hoped it was the same for his friends. As it appeared, they had a lot to learn about themselves and their relationships.

But even as he helped the confused Russian manage his spontaneous frost magic, Lucian couldn't ignore the larger implications of what he was witnessing. Julian's System wasn't just giving humans access to magic—it was reorganizing how magic itself worked, creating connections between power and meaning that bypassed traditional bloodline inheritance.

The old magical hierarchies were crumbling. But what was taking their place might be even more chaotic than what they'd lost. How far would that influence spread? For now, it didn't even cover this human world completely. Would it go past its arcane boundaries? Past the boundaries of the other human worlds?

Again and again. Lucian had too many questions and not enough answers.

His phone buzzed with a new message from Nyx: "Yes. All of us," confirming the meeting that would force him to face Mo and work through the complex emotions that had been building since their fight. The thought of seeing her again created its own weather pattern around him—anxiety and affection and frustration swirling together like a winter storm.

But first, he had work to do. The System might be incomplete, but it was creating new magical practitioners by the thousands. And unlike the Academy's systematic approach to magical education, these humans had no guidance, no safety protocols, no understanding of the responsibility that came with power.

Lucian created a small ice flower in his palm, letting it catch the winter light as he prepared to leave for Dr. Chen's Integration Centre. The flower was beautiful and temporary, like all art. But also, like all art, it left something behind—a memory of possibility, a reminder that power could serve creation rather than destruction.

He knelt and placed the delicate bloom at the base of the memorial, where it nestled among weathered flowers left for those who had fallen against fascism. Until today, this stone has remembered only one kind of sacrifice—heroes of war, celebrated and officially mourned. But the Integration had awakened older griefs, deeper wounds that the state preferred forgotten. His ice flower would be the first offering to acknowledge this transformation, the first tribute to lives that had vanished not in glory but in silence, not on battlefields but in midnight knocks and unmarked graves.

And the humans of this transformed world would likely accept without question when winter's gift would defy season's law—when this single bloom would endure through spring's warmth and summer's heat, becoming as permanent as the memories it honored.