"Lad…" Headmaster Blaise stepped forward.
"Where is she?!" Godric's cry tore through the room, his chest heaving as fury surged through him.
Professor Serfence's wand twitched in his grip, but before he could utter a single incantation, Blaise lifted a hand, halting him. Serfence hesitated, then gave a short nod and lowered his wand.
Blaise exhaled slowly. "I see you, like many before you, have discovered the temptations of the Mirror of Erised." His words carried a weight that made Godric's stomach churn. "And despite whatever denial you've been holding onto, deep down… I think you already know exactly what it does."
Godric's crimson eyes remained locked on him, his teeth bared, his knuckles still tight around the hilt of his sword.
"If not," Blaise continued, "then allow me to give you a clue." He stepped closer. "The happiest man in the world would look into that mirror and see only himself, exactly as he is."
He leaned in slightly. "Do you understand what that means, my boy?"
Godric's breath was uneven. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword before, slowly, his grip loosened. His hand dropped to his side.
"It means…" he said. "It shows us what we want. Whatever we want."
Blaise tilted his head slightly before shaking it. "Yes… and no." His gaze softened. "The Mirror of Erised doesn't simply show us what we want—it shows us nothing more and nothing less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts."
He placed a firm hand on Godric's shoulder. "And you want nothing more than to be with Miss Raine. To see her smiling back at you. To live the promises you made together." His words were quiet but unwavering. "Isn't that right?"
Godric stood motionless, his breath shallow, his body stiff beneath Blaise's firm grasp. His muscles ached from the tension, but it was nothing compared to the twisting, suffocating weight in his chest. The truth pressed down on him like a stone, heavy and unrelenting. His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.
His lips parted, but no sound came at first. His throat burned as if the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile illusion he had clung to so desperately. His crimson eyes, still rimmed with exhaustion, flickered with something raw, something fractured.
"Yes," he finally forced out. The single word felt like an admission of defeat.
Blaise held his gaze, his expression carefully measured, but his blue eyes carried something deeper—understanding, perhaps even regret. Blaise's grip remained steady, anchoring Godric in place as he turned him fully to face him.
"And that, my boy," he said. "That is why the mirror is so dangerous."
Both hands settled upon Godric's shoulders now, grounding him. "It offers no knowledge, no truth, no promises." His grip tightened slightly, not in force, but in emphasis. "It is nothing more than a window into a beautiful lie—one that you could waste a lifetime staring into, and still, it would give you nothing."
Godric's jaw clenched. "Is it truly so terrible?" he said. "Is it such a crime to lose yourself in that lie?"
"Why should we have to live in a world where all we know is pain? Why should we just accept it? The world is cold, wicked, merciless. It beats us down and leaves us broken, and yet it sits so far above us that we can't make it suffer the same way it has made us!"
Blaise sighed, the lines of his face deepening. "No, my boy," he said. "It's not a crime to wish for peace. It's not even a crime to want to escape. I understand the temptation—to live in a world of your own making, a place where you feel safe, where you can be happy."
"But men have wasted away in front of that mirror, lost in their own desires. Men far greater, far formidable than you." He met Godric's eyes, his own gaze heavy. "Even gone mad."
Godric recoiled as if struck. "I'm… I'm not going mad, Professor!" he snapped.
"Really?" Blaise arched a brow. "Because the Godric Gryffindor I know—the brave, righteous, stubborn young man I have come to respect—would never have drawn his sword on a friend."
Godric opened his mouth, but the words didn't come.
Because there was nothing to say.
Blaise's words crashed down on him like a collapsing tower. His gaze dropping to the floor as his shoulders slumped. The fire inside him, the fury that had kept him standing, flickered, fragile and uncertain.
Blaise exhaled. "Remember, Mister Slytherin does not deserve your ire," he said. "He was worried about you. Rightfully so. And I am certain Miss Ravenclaw and Miss Hufflepuff would share in that sentiment."
Godric stood motionless, his gaze downcast, his breath uneven. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.
"I will not ask you to stop mourning your loss," he continued. "Nor will I demand that you simply move on. The human heart is a fragile, fickle thing. Emotions flicker and flare like the wisps of a flame—unpredictable, untamed."
He studied Godric for a moment, taking in the way the boy trembled ever so slightly beneath the surface, as if holding himself together by sheer force of will.
"You were sorted into Ignis for a reason," Blaise said, his gaze searching. "Passion, courage, determination—all strengths when wielded wisely. But fire, when left unchecked, doesn't just burn its wielder."
His grip on Godric's shoulders firmed, just slightly. "It spreads. And if you let it, it will consume not only you, but those who stand beside you—the people who love you, the ones who refuse to let you face this alone."
A quiet sigh escaped him, and for the briefest moment, something almost like sorrow flickered across his features. "As much as I hate to admit it, Miss Raine is gone," he said gently. "And so long as you continue to let that wound fester—so long as you keep feeding it—it will never heal."
Blaise's voice dropped to a quiet, almost solemn murmur. "And neither will you."
He lifted a hand, his fingers ghosting over Godric's cheek—a simple, grounding touch. The boy finally looked up at him, his crimson eyes glassy, his breath unsteady. A tear slipped down his cheek, then another, but he made no effort to stop them.
"It does not do to dwell on dreams, my boy." Blaise offered him a small nod, "and forget to live."
Godric swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he gave a small, hesitant nod.
"Come now," Blaise said, clapping a reassuring hand against Godric's back. "It has been a rather… emotional day for all of us." He turned toward the door, leading the boy toward it with steady steps.
As he opened it, he cast a glance over his shoulder at Professor Serfence, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. The man, draped in dark, flowing robes, met his gaze and gave a curt nod. They then stepped out, shutting the door behind them, leaving the man alone in the dimly lit storeroom.
For a long moment, Serfence simply stood there, his gaze locked on the empty space where the mirror had once stood. Then, with a wave of his wand, it shimmered back into existence, its presence unsettling even in silence.
He reached for the thick leather tarp, his fingers curling around the fabric, ready to conceal it once more—but something made him pause. Against his better judgment, his gaze flickered to the mirror's surface.
And he saw.
His breath caught in his throat, his normally sharp features twisting, ever so slightly, with something raw. Something painful.
A sharp inhale, a moment's hesitation—then his eyes closed, his jaw tightening. With an almost forceful motion, he threw the tarp over the mirror, the heavy fabric swallowing its secrets once more. Taking a measured step back, he flicked his wand again, and the mirror warped, vanishing into the ether, transported somewhere beyond reach.
Serfence exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sleek black hair, his fingers pressing briefly against his temple as if trying to ward off something unseen. Then, straightening his robes, he turned sharply on his heel, stepped toward the door, and left the storeroom without another glance back.
****
Both Headmaster Blaise and Godric walked in silence, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. Godric kept his eyes downcast, his mind tangled in thoughts too heavy to unravel. Blaise cast a glance at him every so often but said nothing. He knew there was little he could offer—no words, no reassurances that wouldn't feel empty, no wisdom that could dull the raw wound still bleeding inside the boy's chest. Words were hollow against grief this deep.
Godric's steps were slow, dragging, reminiscent of the way he had left Professor Workner's office weeks ago. Every step now felt just as futile. Every choice he had made, every desperate grasp for solace—it had all led him here, to this bitter nothingness.
A part of him seethed with anger. At Salazar, for tattling. At Blaise and Serfence, for tearing the mirror away from him—the one thing that had kept him from unraveling entirely. But beneath that anger lurked guilt, gnawing and relentless. He knew they had acted for his own good. He knew that if they hadn't intervened, he might have wasted away in front of that cursed reflection, lost in a dream that was never real. And deeper still, beyond the anger, beyond the guilt, was the cold, unshakable truth.
Raine was gone.
The mirror had been nothing more than an illusion, a cruel trick of the heart. And he had clung to it like a drowning man reaching for a ghost. The thought chilled him. Not just because of what he had lost, but because of what the mirror could have taken from him if he had let it.
As Headmaster Blaise began to speak, a soft sound reached both his and Godric's ears—a muffled sobbing, accompanied by whispered reassurances. It was raw, laden with anguish, and it stopped both of them in their tracks. They exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent confirmation that they had both heard it. Without a word, they moved swiftly down the hallway, the urgency in their steps matching the growing sense of dread.
Rounding the corner, Godric's chest tightened. There, in the dim light of the corridor was Sofea, her arms wrapped protectively around Shana, the rabbit therianthrope they had encountered weeks ago. Shana was crumpled in Sofea's embrace, her long, white ears drooping low in sorrow as she wept into Sofea's neck. Her once-pristine tunic was ripped and barely hung on her frail frame, threads hanging loose and torn. The sight of bruises—deep, purplish-blue and still fresh—marred her arms and legs. They were the marks of violence.
Sofea, though her face held a softness, was unmistakably shaken, her grip on the trembling girl tightening as she whispered comforting words. Anton knelt beside them, his face drawn tight in something between concern and barely contained anger. His brow furrowed as he looked at the two women in his charge, his usual calm demeanor shattered.
"By the Gods," Blaise muttered, stepping forward with furrowed brows. "Anton, what happened?"
Anton turned, meeting Blaise's gaze, and his lips parted to respond. However, when his eyes landed on Godric, standing nearby, the words died in his throat. There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke.
"Headmaster," Anton began. "I must speak with you. In private, if you please." His eyes flicked back to Shana briefly, a look of deep concern passing through him.
Blaise's face tightened; the calm that usually radiated from him now replaced with an edge of urgency. He nodded curtly. "Of course. My office."
Anton rose to his feet, placing a reassuring hand on Sofea's shoulder as he spoke. "I'll be right back, my dears," he said. "Sofea, take her to the Hospital Wing. Have Doctor Adani tend to her. I will make this right. You have my word."
Sofea nodded, but her face was streaked with worry. She gently shifted Shana in her arms, murmuring softly to the girl. As Anton turned toward Blaise to leave, their eyes met in a shared understanding, a silent communication passing between them. Anton patted Godric's shoulder as he passed, his expression somber.
Godric, left standing in the hallway, took a step toward Sofea and Shana. He paused for a moment, watching Shana's body shake with each sob. He felt a sharp, bitter pang in his chest as his thoughts clouded with rage and helplessness. Whatever had happened to her, whatever cruelty had been done, he could not—would not—stand idly by.
He kneeled beside Shana, her body trembling in Sofea's arms. The sound of her broken sobs seemed to reverberate through the hall, and the air felt heavy with the pain that surrounded them. Godric's brow furrowed as he watched the girl's distress, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Sofea, what happened?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the shaking form of the girl in Sofea's embrace.
The older slave's eyes dropped, a quiet sadness filling them as she stared down at Shana, unsure of how to answer. She shifted uncomfortably. "Godric… Shana… she..." Her words trailed off. "The older boys... they..."
Shana's sobs grew louder, as though the very mention of what had occurred reopened the wound. Sofea winced, her face stricken with sorrow as she pulled the girl closer, trying to comfort her.
Godric's jaw clenched, his lips pressed tight as the unease within him turned to cold fury. His eyes narrowed. "Who?" The word was a demand, a command that carried an edge of imminent retribution. "Give me a name."
Sofea flinched, startled by the intensity in Godric's tone. There was a hardness in his gaze she had never seen before, a darkness that sent a chill straight down her spine. She had always known Godric to be a protector, but this—this was something else entirely. She hesitated. Her throat tight. "My dear boy, I don't—"
"A name, Sofea," Godric pressed again, his hand clenched at his side. "Now."
The urgency in his voice broke through her hesitation, and with a heavy sigh, Sofea turned her face away, as if the words themselves would burn her. "Cardin… Cardin Winchester."
The name hit Godric like a thunderclap, rattling through his bones. Cardin Winchester. The same bastard who had tormented Shana, sneering down at her like she was nothing. The hallway around him blurred, sound fading into a distant hum as the memory of that encounter surged back—Cardin's sadistic smirk, the casual cruelty in his grip on Shana's ear, the jeering laughter of his cronies.
Godric's breathing sharpened as his heart pounded in his chest, not with fear, but with fury—a raw, burning rage that clawed up his throat, demanding to be unleashed. The air around him felt stifling, heavy with an unspoken promise. He stood abruptly, his movements quick and sharp. Without another word, he turned on his heel, his strides long and purposeful as he stormed down the hall, his destination clear.
"Godric, please," Sofea called out. "Don't do anything you'll regret!"
Godric didn't hear her. He couldn't. His mind was a violent storm, a maelstrom of rage and grief twisting together into something raw, something unbearable. He ran, his boots slamming against the stone floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his thoughts spiraled into a cacophony of voices, memories flashing in fragmented bursts, each one more agonizing than the last.
"I remember back when… after those fifth years would have their way with her."
"Since I came to Excalibur, the male students have done terrible things to me."
"I'm a slave, Godric. Nobody cares about me. Nobody cares about any of us."
His fists clenched as his entire body thrumming with barely contained fury. He had fought. He had bled. He had given everything to make a difference, and yet nothing had changed. Excalibur's halls were still filled with monsters, cloaked in uniforms of nobility, wearing masks of civility while they defiled and brutalized without consequence.
He turned a corner sharply, wrenching open the door to the storeroom, his movements frantic yet purposeful. His crimson eyes locked onto the wooden box resting atop a pile of discarded supplies. The glass jars within rattled as he snatched it up. He didn't hesitate, didn't stop to think. He turned, his steps heavy as he stomped toward the abandoned bathroom, shoving the door open with enough force that it banged against the wall.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and neglect. Dust clung to every surface, the cracked mirror above the sink dull with age. The flickering lanterns cast long, jagged shadows against the walls, distorting his own reflection as he approached.
His breath came in heavy pants as he dropped the box into the sink. Jars of dye clattered against one another, their faded labels peeling with time. His gaze flickered between them, his mind reeling, thoughts bleeding together.
Raine's cries in the dead of night. The terror that gripped her when the memories clawed their way back into her mind. Now Shana, forced into the same cycle of suffering. And the men who did it—laughing, walking free, untouched by justice.
The academy allowed this.
The world allowed this.
And it would keep allowing it.
Unless someone made it stop.
He closed his eyes for a moment, a memory flickering to life, unbidden.
"Draped in armor and a cloak black as the void itself. His pale skin bore the mark of death, and his amber eyes glowed like flames in the darkness. Black stains, like congealed blood, surrounded his eyes, forming a twisted, demented mask."
Godric's eyes snapped open. His gaze locked onto the black and white dyes.
"It felt like the world hurt us first. Why shouldn't we hurt it back?"
Godric exhaled, long and slow, as his fingers twisted open the lids. He dipped his hands into the thick, viscous dye, dragging his fingers through the liquid as it clung to his skin. The coldness of it seeped into his bones, chilling him to his core, but he didn't care. His movements were precise, almost reverent, as he ran his stained fingers across his face.
The white came first, smearing over his skin like the wax of a candle left to burn too long. It spread in uneven strokes, washing away the warmth of his complexion, leaving behind something ghostly, something cold. Then came the black—thick, dark, and unrelenting. It stained the hollows beneath his eyes, trailing downward in jagged streaks, bleeding into his cheeks like ancient ink.
The uneven smudges carved a grotesque mask across his face, distorting the boy he had once been, accentuating the sharpness of his features, the hollowed-out exhaustion that had settled beneath his skin. The white returned, splintering through the darkness like fractured bone, jagged and imperfect, streaked across his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the edges of his jaw.
He scooped up the remaining black dye, running his fingers through the fiery strands of his hair, dragging the darkness through every lock as if suffocating the red beneath a tide of shadow. The vibrant hues dulled, swallowed by the inky blackness, the rich crimson reduced to fleeting embers flickering beneath the weight of something far heavier, something final. His movements were slow, deliberate, methodical—each stroke of his hands sealing away another piece of himself.
When he was done, he lifted his head, breath steady but chest tight, and turned to the mirror.
The reflection that met him was unfamiliar.
The boy he once knew, was gone. In his place stood something hollowed, something shaped by sorrow and sharpened by rage. His face was a haunting canvas of black and white, streaked like war paint, the contours of his features exaggerated by the unnatural contrast. His hair, once wild and untamed like the spirit that had burned within him, now hung dark and heavy, a veil of mourning draped over a phantom.
His crimson eyes, the only thing untouched by the transformation, burned through the painted mask, gleaming like embers in the dim light.
He didn't recognize the person staring back at him.
And perhaps, that was exactly what he needed.
Godric's breaths were slow, controlled, yet he could feel the fire roaring in his veins, an ember rekindled after weeks of suffocating silence. He had spent so long drowning, clawing for air in a world that had already buried him. But now?
Now, he was something else.
His hands curled into fists, the tremor in them long gone. His shoulders rolled back, the weight on his back shifting as his sword settled against him, its presence a familiar whisper, an unspoken vow. His fingers found the hilt before gripping it, steady, certain.
This was no longer about justice.
This was vengeance.
****
The air inside The Congregation pulsed with energy, a cacophony of roars, cheers, and jeers echoing off the wooden beams above. The arena below was a battlefield of flashing steel and streaks of magic, ten combatants locked in fierce duels, the clash of wands and weapons sending sparks flying into the already fevered atmosphere. Spectators hollered from the stands, fists pumping as they threw their bets onto the bookie tables, the clink of platinum and gold rattling with each new wager.
The tavern beyond was just as lively, packed to the brim with patrons feasting, drinking, and reveling in the latest topic of the hour—the infamous duel between Godric and Volg, the match that had shaken The Congregation to its core.
From her place on the banisters, Helena watched with a practiced neutrality, her Overseer badge glinting under the crystalline lights. She barely flinched as one of the fighters took a brutal hit from a mace, the force sending him careening backward into the wooden barricade with a sickening thud. She exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. Just another night in The Congregation.
"Well, well," a smooth, unmistakable voice coiled around her ears. "Fancy running into you here."
Helena turned sharply, her brown eyes meeting the smirking visage of Salazar Slytherin. Her stomach twisted, heat creeping up her cheeks before she could stop it. He leaned casually against the railing, arms folded, his emerald gaze gleaming with mischief.
"I see you're still as lovely as ever," he teased.
Helena straightened, clearing her throat, willing the warmth from her face. "Of course I am." Her eyes widened. "I mean here!" she stammered, realizing her words. "I mean, why wouldn't I be? I am an Overseer, after all."
Salazar tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Oh, come now," he mused, stepping closer. "You aren't still flustered over our little… incident back during Yuletide, are you?"
Her body tensed, and she immediately turned away, her grip tightening around the railing. "No! Of course not!" she shot back. She exhaled sharply before adding, "It's just… well." She shrugged, gaze flickering to the fight below. "It's complicated, Salazar."
"Complicated?" he echoed, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Helena, my dear, it was just sex. No harm, no foul. Everyone does it. It's not a big deal."
Helena's eyes darkened as she snapped her gaze back to him. "It is for me, Slytherin," she said coldly. "I always thought that my first time would be with someone I loved, not…" She gestured toward him, words failing her.
Salazar placed a dramatic hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Oh, Helena, you wound me deeply," he drawled. "And here I was about to tell you that I treasured our time together."
"Please," she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Spare me the sweet little lies, Salazar. That silver tongue of yours might work on the desperate little things who swoon over your debonair smirk, but not on me."
"Besides," Helena continued, "I know your reputation. You probably have a body count as high as the entire population of Caerleon. What am I but just another notch on your belt?"
Salazar chuckled, the sound smooth and unbothered, as if her words were more of a compliment than an accusation. "Oh, my dear, you're absolutely right," he said, his emerald eyes gleaming. Then, with a smirk that carried just a hint of something unreadable, he added, "Just not in the way you might think."
Salazar's smirk faded as his gaze drifted back to the arena, his eyes settling on a familiar figure—Cardin Winchester. The young man stood at the center of the pit, twirling his heavy mace with effortless ease, the motion almost lazy, yet practiced, controlled.
The emblem of the Midnighters was emblazoned across the back of his jacket, stark against the dark fabric—a grim reaper clutching a scythe, its blade resting before the face of a cracked clock. A fitting symbol for a clan that reveled in violence, unbound by rules, governed only by strength and fear.
"Well, if it isn't Cardin Winchester and his little pack of strays," he mused. "I hear he's been climbing the ranks lately." His fingers drummed idly against the banister. "I wonder if he's as competent as he likes to think he is."
Helena followed his gaze, her lips pursing. "That's what happens when you align yourself with the right people," she said. "He's got power, connections, and no shortage of arrogance. If he keeps this up, he'll be sliding into the top ten in no time."
Salazar hummed in thought, but his focus remained fixed on Cardin. "That remains to be seen," he said. "Some men think themselves untouchable… right up until the moment they realize just how wrong they are."
Salazar flinched as Cardin sent another opponent crashing into the arena wall with a sickening thud. The crowd roared in approval, their cheers blending into a frenzied cacophony. "That has got to hurt. Seems The Congregation is insisting all weapons be enchanted with the Obtunsus charm now, are they?" he muttered, watching as the fallen combatant groaned and attempted to push himself up.
"Indeed," Helena replied, not even flinching as another fighter hit the dirt. "Ever since Godric took Volg's arm clean off at the Bellum Inter Duos, the Five decided to introduce the regulation for all arena duels."
She cast him a sideways glance. "The charm blunts the deadliness of weapons—takes the sharpness off blades, the lethal edges off maces. It still hurts but I'm sure people would rather feel as if they were clubbed by a bat rather than being disemboweled by a broadsword. A broken rib or two is much easier to mend than explaining to Doctor Adani why she needs to regrow someone's missing leg."
Salazar lifted a finger, ready to correct her, but before he could get a word in, Helena cut him off with a sharp glance. "And yes, before you even think about it, I am well aware that arena rules strictly prohibit maiming your opponent," she said. "But, as we all know, accidents do happen."
The boy hummed in thought, rubbing his chin before smirking. "But where's the fun in that? Surely, these people aren't just here for the sport. They want carnage, bloodshed, the thrilling spectacle of dismembered limbs and the agonized screams of the defeated."
Helena rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Believe it or not, we aren't as demented as you think we are, Salazar," she said dryly.
Salazar chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, but my dear Helena," he mused, gesturing toward the bloodthirsty crowd, their voices rising in drunken euphoria. "I'm not talking about you."
Helena's gaze then softened as she studied Salazar, the usual glint of mischief in his eyes dimmed by something heavier, something that weighed on him more than he was willing to admit. She had known him for the past three years, had seen him wear every expression—cocky arrogance, wry amusement, even calculated indifference—but never had she seen this. This quiet, aching helplessness.
"That aside," she said, shifting the conversation with care, "how's Godric?"
At the mention of his friend, Salazar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on the railing tightening. He looked away for a moment, as if gathering the right words, but when he finally spoke, uncharacteristically solemn. "He's…" He hesitated, shaking his head. "I want to say he's getting better, but that would be a lie—whether it's one I tell others or myself."
His gaze drifted toward the arena, though it was clear he wasn't watching the fight. "He's hurting. Badly. And now, he's falling apart. I found him before the Mirror of Erised, drowning in a delusion, convinced Raine was still with him. Like an addict hooked on Shimmer, unable to let go of the high." His jaw clenched. "Who he is now… whatever he's becoming… it breaks my heart, Helena."
Helena pressed her lips into a thin line before placing a hand on his shoulder. "Just give him time," she said, squeezing gently. "He'll pull himself out of this. He has to."
Salazar let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "I want to believe that, I truly do." His fingers curled against the wood, the tension in his posture betraying the war inside him. "But every passing day, I see more of him wasting away, slipping further from reach." His voice dropped, quieter now, almost bitter. "The last thing I want is to pay a visit to Doctor Adani."
Helena swallowed. She understood what he meant. She had seen it before—students found too late, grief and despair having carved them into ghosts of themselves, lost to the abyss before anyone could drag them back. She didn't want to believe that would be Godric's fate but neither did Salazar.
And yet, both knew—sometimes, wanting wasn't enough.
Helena's brow furrowed. "Where's Godric now? Perhaps we can both pay him a visit. I'm sure he could use the company."
"That's the thing—I've been looking for him all day," Salazar replied, pushing himself off the banister and crossing his arms. "He's not in his room, nor the library, nor the Great Hall. I even checked with both Rowena and Helga, and neither of them have seen him. It's like he just—"
A thunderous clang rang through the arena as the last opponent from the opposing team crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The bell tolled in declaration.
"Winners—The Midnighters!"
The announcer's voice boomed over the raucous crowd. Cardin and his boys threw their hands up in triumph, basking in the deafening cheers as gold and platinum coins exchanged hands. He grinned, bloodied but victorious, his cocky smirk baring his teeth. His chest heaved with exhilaration as he turned toward the spectators.
"That's it! Another win for the Midnighters!" Cardin roared, arms outstretched in arrogant triumph. "Who's next? Who's got the guts to step into the ring with Cardin Winchester and his Midnighters?!" His tone dripped with smug condescension, more a taunt than a challenge.
And then—silence.
****
It was unnatural, like the arena itself had inhaled and refused to exhale. The roaring crowd fell still, the drunken shouts and clinking of bets placed all vanishing in an instant. The air thickened with something heavy, something wrong.
Salazar and Helena's expressions shifted from mild annoyance to stunned disbelief. Their mouths fell slightly agape.
"What…?" Helena started.
Salazar's emerald eyes widened. He swallowed hard. "No… it can't be…"
Confused by the sudden stillness, Cardin scoffed. "What?" He turned his head, expecting to see some hesitant challenger, some poor fool stupid enough to test him—only to freeze when his gaze landed on the figure standing behind him.
His hair, once a brilliant red, was now as black as the abyss. His face was an eerie canvas of white, stark and unnatural, making the dark paint streaked beneath his eyes even more haunting—black smudges ran down his cheeks like corrupted tears. But it was his eyes that sent an involuntary chill down Cardin's spine. Crimson orbs, hollow yet burning, fixed on him with something not quite human, as if his presence devoured the air itself.
"Is that…?" Helena whispered.
Salazar exhaled sharply, his pulse quickening. "Godric…"
The stunned silence of the arena was broken by the announcer's voice.
"Next up—The Midnighters versus… The Lion of Ignis, Godric Gryffindor!"
Cardin barely had a chance to process what he was seeing before the brass bell rang. The sword then struck his face with brutal force, the impact shattering through the air like a blast. Even dulled by the Obtunsus charm, the sheer power behind the blow was catastrophic—bone crunched, teeth snapped loose from their roots, and Cardin's head wrenched violently to the side with a sickening pop. He spun mid-air before slamming into the arena floor. Hard.
Gasps rippled through the arena. Cardin's gang gawked in stunned silence, their bravado vanishing as they watched their leader twitch and groan, blood trickling from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, Godric turned to them.
The sight alone sent a ripple of excitement, shock, and unease through the gathered crowd. For a moment, there was nothing but silence—then, the first roar of exhilaration erupted, soon followed by a deafening wave of cheers, gasps, and frantic whispers.
Bets were overturned. Wagers hastily adjusted. People stood on their seats, craning for a better view. The tension that had gripped the audience a moment ago now gave way to something ravenous, something electric. Cardin's lackeys hesitated, their bravado faltering.
A few exchanged wary glances, their grip on their weapons tightening. Cardin himself coughed, blood splattering onto the sand of the arena as he groaned, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, his jaw hanging at an odd angle, his teeth shattered. He looked up at Godric with a mixture of fury and something else—something he refused to name.
Godric stood unmoving, his breath slow, controlled. He tilted his head slightly, his blackened hair falling over his face, the streaks of ink-like paint dripping down his cheeks making his crimson gaze even more terrifying. His blade, still humming from the impact, rested at his side, but there was nothing casual in his stance—he was waiting, daring them to make a move.
And then, he smirked.
It wasn't the cocky grin he used to wear, the one filled with confidence and charm. No, this one was different—darker. This was a promise.
"Alright, you Midnighter bastards." His grip on his sword tightened, the metal gleaming dully under the arena lights. "You called down the thunder." He stepped forward, the tip of his blade dragging against the ground with a grating whisper, like steel carving into stone. "Well, now you've got it."
He rolled his shoulders, shifting his stance, his movements fluid but crackling with restrained violence. His sword twirled in a slow, controlled arc before settling firm in his grip, ready—hungry.
"So come on, then…" His crimson eyes burned like embers in the dark, fixed on the trembling forms before him. "Come and get it!"
The Midnighters hesitated, their previous bravado stripped away in the face of something far more dangerous than they'd anticipated. Godric wasn't here to win. He wasn't here to duel.
He was here to break them.