The mirror was cracked along the upper edge, a thin silver vein running through the reflection like a scar across the leader's brow. He stood before it in a dimly lit room, the walls of old brick, the windowless air tinged with dust and old candle wax.
He adjusted the collar of his deep maroon robe, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. A tarnished silver brooch clasped the front shaped like a flame curling around a hollow center. He leaned forward slightly, running his fingers through his dark hair, streaking it back from his temples. With a practiced gesture, he pinched a fold of fabric near the shoulder, tugging it just so. Perfect.
Then he smiled.
Just a flicker at first more habit than emotion but as he held the expression, something shimmered in his gaze. For a moment, his eyes gleamed gold, unnatural and glinting like molten coin under torchlight.
The light passed.
He blinked once, and the gold was gone.
Turning from the mirror, he swept up a cane resting beside the door black-lacquered wood with a smooth, polished grip and a steel cap at its base. More than for show, it clicked with authority when he walked. Not old. Not feeble. Intentional.
He left the room. The wooden door groaned softly as it opened into a narrow stone hallway, and he descended a flight of stairs lit by flickering oil lanterns. His footsteps echoed, the sharp tap-tap of his cane against worn stone drawing attention even before he reached the bottom.
At the base of the stairwell, an old maintenance arch opened into a broad chamber deep beneath the streets of New York. Here, the squib resistance had gathered.
They stood shoulder to shoulder men and women of every background, from every continent. East Asian faces beside Eastern European. West African beside British and Latin American. There were calloused hands and tired eyes, factory uniforms and ragged coats. Some clutched notebooks, others pocket knives. Many bore nothing but fire behind their eyes.
The crowd parted as he entered.
A ripple of quiet anticipation flowed through the room.
He walked with the confidence of someone who believed truly believed that he had been wronged by fate and was destined to rewrite it.
He reached the raised platform at the far end of the chamber. Waiting beside it was the same friend who had nodded to him days ago the one who had been seated near the entrance when he first revealed the truth about Morpheus.
The leader placed a hand briefly on the man's shoulder.
Then, without a word, he ascended the steps.
All eyes were on him now.
He stepped forward into the glow of the gaslight. The flames flickered wildly for a moment not from draft, but something else. Something just beneath the surface.
He smiled again, slow and certain.
Then he raised his arms.
"Brothers and sisters," he said, his voice firm, smooth, and carrying through the stone chamber like polished steel. "We gather again. Stronger. Smarter. And closer to justice."
He let the words linger, letting the silence deepen just enough to demand attention. Then he lowered his arms, resting one hand lightly on the head of his cane, and paced slowly across the raised platform.
"For too long," he began, "we have been made to kneel."
The crowd was utterly silent.
"For too long, we have lived under the shadow of the magical elite called failures, embarrassments, burdens to be hidden and hushed. 'Squibs,' they named us, as if the lack of a spark made us unworthy of flame."
He stopped walking, turning to face them directly. The golden shimmer passed behind his eyes again quick, subtle, and gone.
"They trained us to believe we were broken. They whispered behind our backs, they turned their faces away in shame. Parents disowned their own children. Brothers refused to stand beside brothers. Sisters cast out sisters. Entire bloodlines washed themselves clean with silence."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Fists clenched. Teeth ground.
"I know your stories," he said. "I know what it is to be told you do not belong. That the very magic in the world has passed you by. That your existence is… lesser."
He looked out over them hundreds packed shoulder to shoulder, many standing on crates or hunched together on ledges to see him.
"I am saddened," he continued, lowering his voice slightly, "that some of our brothers and sisters could not be with us tonight. They are out there, risking everything planting seeds where our resistance must grow. Listening. Watching. Preparing."
He bowed his head briefly. "May their paths be swift and silent. And may they return to us stronger."
He straightened again. "But make no mistake we are not just survivors. We are not scraps clinging to the edge of magical society. We are the foundation they abandoned. The roots they tried to sever."
He struck the end of his cane against the floor once. A sharp metallic crack echoed through the chamber.
"And soon, we will show them every one of them what happens when those roots grow back. Twisted. Deep. And strong enough to tear down their golden towers."
A rising rumble of voices surged around him now anger, agreement, something electric rising through the air.
The murmurs had grown into voices now. A surge of energy pulsed through the room anger, yes, but also something more dangerous: hope.
A man near the front raised his hand. "You say we'll bring down their golden towers," he called, his voice steady but urgent. "But how? They still have magic. Wands. Creatures. How do we stand against that?"
Others echoed him nodding, muttering. Someone else shouted, "Yeah, we can't just march in with pitchforks!"
The leader did not flinch.
He turned toward the first man and walked to the edge of the platform, resting both hands on the head of his cane.
"That's the question, isn't it?" he said. "The question they've beaten into us since birth. How can the powerless fight the powerful?" He let the question ring, then smiled faintly. "It's the wrong question."
The room hushed again.
"We are not powerless," he said. "We are magic-starved. That is different. We were born into magic our bloodlines, our names, our histories they are soaked in it. And yet it was stolen from us. Do you think that theft came without consequence? Without residue?"
A few eyes widened.
"We have learned things," he continued slowly, letting the sentence hang like smoke. "There are cracks in the old world. Veins of energy they thought buried. And where their magic flows freely… it also leaks."
Someone in the crowd stood. A young woman, freckled, fierce-eyed. "But we don't have wands. We don't have spells. How can we fight?"
He tilted his head toward her, respectful.
"You're right. We don't have wands," he said. "We have minds. We have history. And most of all… we have each other. That's something the magical world has long forgotten—how to rely on anything but their own power."
He turned back to the crowd. "We will strike them where they least expect. Not head-on like fools. We will bleed them slow. We will strip them of their certainty. We will use their own secrets—many they no longer remember—against them."
A pause.
"As for the rest… some plans are not ready for the light." He tapped his temple once. "But they are coming. Piece by piece."
Another voice from the back: "Have you ever fought a wizard?"
The leader didn't miss a beat. "I've unmade one."
Gasps rippled through the room.
He smiled again. "Do not confuse magic with invincibility. Even the gods fall."
The crowd was simmering now. They wanted more details, strategy, vengeance. But they also believed, and belief more than magic was what the leader fed on.
—-
A/N: to be perfectly clear this guy is a cult leader when he says "unmade" it's supposed to sound like bullshit because wtf does that even mean