Hello there! Wanted to release the first chapter of the fourth book before the year ended, so here it is. Off I go!

That day, a horror of inconceivable magnitude occurred.

A man who had no right to be alive came to visit me. A man I presumed dead. A man I never thought to see again. And yet, when he stood before me, I knew it was no ordinary man, much less that poor fool I once knew. No, it was something different. A far worse thing. An evil to which I could not find a word to describe.

What had become of him, I asked myself that day. And the answer came to me in the blink of an eye. A monster, I told myself. A monster dressed in man's clothes, who spoke my same tongue and who thought and moved and felt as I did. He did not possessed a bunch of heads, some to exhale fire and others to ooze acid, and whose hands were delicate yet callous and ended in nails instead of claws. And a monster still.

Poetic, is it not? For a man such as myself who had never believed in tales and myths, I was reminded of my foolishness once more. Because, in the end, I am just another man. Limited by his mind and soul, by his logic and conscience, by his love and fear. There were lines I vowed to never cross. Others, however, had never done so.

Lawrence the Third, in 'Ramblings and thinkings of an old man', chapter 345.

Chapter 66 - Winds of change

Ron groaned in protest as the light became too insufferable. He rolled to his side, sheltering his head into the soft pillow. He waited and waited and waited, squeezing every second of rest within the morning.

Then he took notice of something.

Oh, right. I'm back home. There's no Alarm Charm here.

He sat up with a loud yawn, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He'd gone to bed late tonight, as Charlie had come home for the week. They'd played Quidditch until the sun didn't allow them so, stuffed their stomachs full of food and listened to his tales full of dragons, fire and curses. He felt exhausted, a sensation he'd grown quite used to lately. This was a different kind, however. A good one. His eyes felt heavy, indeed, the bed and its covers clung to him, beckoning him to stay. But unlike all those times, he felt good. Damn good.

Despite the sombre omens all over the world, the rebirth of a madman from times past, and the fact he'd killed a man, Ron felt good.

So he bolted up with a smile on his face, halting a moment to put on an old shirt and some short trousers. And then he stormed out of his dormitory, almost running down the stairs, and nearly crashing into his sister as she also made her way down to the kitchen.

"Hey!" Ginny snapped at him with a growl. "Look where you're going!"

Mornings had never been kind to her, more so with so few hours of sleep. She was a cute sight, with her red summer pyjamas, her hair messy and bristled and her face flushed in a similar shade yet bearing a fearsome scowl. Needless to say, Ron wisely chose to not say that aloud. He appreciated every one of his limbs, thank you very much.

And despite all of that, and despite her shouting, there was a grin on her face too.

"Race to the kitchen?" Ron asked. Ginny didn't bother to answer him. She broke into a sprint for the stairs, jumping them down in pairs. "Damn girl! That's cheating!"

Ron had a feeling that even if they were to start at the same time, she would have won the race. Still, he had his little victory over her, seeing her a bit flushed and out of breath as she sat down on her usual chair—the one closest to the door—whereas he felt perfect.

Across the table, Percy sat in front of her with a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands, scowling at them. "I'm reading the news, if you may."

Ginny simply rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath. Echoes of footsteps resounded from behind, and a choir of voices too. The twins had also woken up.

They burst into the kitchen as only they could; as a storm of chaos.

"Ain't this a lovely scent to wake up to, my dear brothers and even dearer sister?" George grinned, taking his seat at the end of the long table, where the cloth barely reached. "Toasts and juice."

"You are a wise man, Georgie!" Fred nodded solemnly, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table, right next to Ron. "And you, dear Percy, have much to learn! The news, really? Aren't they the same every bloody morning?"

"What does Skeeter have to say about Knocturn Alley today?" George asked. "That it's so full of poor people? That it ain't safe? Well, maybe if she wasn't to wear in such a poor fashion people wouldn't stare at her the way they do! Hand to my heart, I'd also rob her. I'd be doing a favour to the world!"

"And what kind of flattery is our dear Minister worthy of today?"

"Any piece about Dumbledore and his ageing mind?"

"I don't think so! Remember they are quite ashamed of the mess Umbridge caused, so that's a big no for the time being."

"Oh, right! How could I have forgotten about her already? I even miss her!"

Heavy footsteps came from behind. Ron turned toward the door just in time to see a sleepy Charlie stepping into the kitchens. "Stop that, you two," the eldest Weasley in the room said as he slapped the back of Fred's neck. He'd grown a sorry excuse of a beard in these past months. It was lasting far more than Ron thought it would, given the way their mother had stared at it.

"It's giving me a headache," he grunted as he let himself down on his chair. " George raised his hands in a plea of innocence, taking delight in his safe position all across the table. "That's much better. Now, why isn't the food on the table already? Oh, wait. You can't use magic outside Hogwarts yet. Man, what a pain in the ass!"

His hand raised, pointed at the pans where the bread toast burned above the weak flames. "Accio bread!" They flew as if pulled up by an invisible string. In a chaotic rain at first, just to be slowed by a twist of his wrist, falling into their dishes. Two for Percy, three for the twins, Ron and Ginny, and five for himself, as per tradition.

They all stared at Charlie. At first, he did a marvellous job of ignoring them as he prepared his breakfast. Almost a minute later, he grew tired of the staring.

"What's your problem?" he snapped.

"The butter," Ginny said. "Mum always heats it a bit for us."

"You can do it yourself on the pan," Charlie pointed out. "It's still hot."

"Yeah," Ron cut in, "but you'll do it far quicker with a simple spell." The twins nodded to that, and Charlie halted as he was about to take a bite of his toast. "Come on, Charlie! Don't expect us to believe you used the bloody pan when you were our age."

"To hell with you all!" he growled, yet granted them their request. And the butter was heated in the curved plate, a faint steam carrying a most delicious scent, with a simple gesture of his hand. Merely a spark of magic for it to melt a bit. "You are doing this to spite me!"

A choir of laughs echoed through the kitchen. Even Percy gave them a glimpse of an amused smile as he passed to the next page.

Idle chat followed as they each devoured their food. Eating was sacred in the Weasley household, and no serious talk was to be made while at it. A few words here and there, all between bites, that was fine. Topics such as the upcoming Quidditch World Cup were pressing ones, after all. But the end of the world might as well wait until they were finished.

And so, conversation swayed to the day's news; a most boring and useless matter usually.

"Anything of interest happened, Perce?" Charlie asked between bites, the sides of his mouth full of crumbs. People had always commented about the way Ron ate—or devoured, better said—but there was a king to the game of eating, and that was Charlie.

The twins made faces, trying to mimic Percy's sense of self-importance when asked about something. He ignored them with a mastery fit of years of experience.

"Actually, there's one thing that has caught my attention in the past few days. Are you aware of what happened in Brazil?"

The twins went still.

"The fire?" George asked, to which Percy nodded.

"Lee's father works in a muggle newspaper," Fred cut in, a bit absent as if deep in thought. "He'd just written an article about the fire, and he couldn't stop talking about it the last day we went to London to visit him. That it was horrible, but also inexplicable. That it was much worse than the local authorities let on…"

"...And that they, very strangely, had already moved on from the accident. He's a muggle, so of course we didn't prod much into the matter, but…"

"...It kinda got our attention, you know. It smelled horribly wrong."

Charlie set his half-eaten toast on the plate. There was a seriousness to him his siblings had rarely seen. Ron was on the edge of his seat, whereas Ginny leaned forward, curious and surprised in equal measure.

"It was the same in Romania," he said. "The newspaper didn't think of it a great deal, and so I did at first. It smelled like some sensationalistic bullshit. But there's this lad, a friend of mine, who is Brazilian. I saw him pale and shocked the other day, so I asked him about it. He spoke of it as a calamity never seen before. His father was an Auror, he said, and he'd told him that…Don't tell Mum and Dad about this, okay? But he spoke of hundreds of casualties. Aurors, all of them. And Hunters too. Whatever happened there, it was no ordinary fire."

A frigid silence fell upon the siblings, one to take every sense of speech within them. Even the twins were at a loss for words. Ginny was first to speak, prodding Charlie about the matter. In a shy way, as if in fear of the possible answers.

Ron, however, couldn't hear any of their words. Hundreds of dead. All he could do was repeat that like a mantra. Just now, when he thought the storm was yet to arrive. And a question arose within his mind—who had it been? Herpo the Foul, or Lord Voldemort.

A hand shook him awake. "Ron?" Ginny asked in a whisper. She observed him with worried eyes.

Ron took a quick look around. Percy, Charlie and the twins were immersed in a heated debate. Percy seemed to be the voice of reason, whereas the twins spoke of crazy theories, one madder than the former—they said something about a breach to hell itself, from where Umbridge herself had escaped. Charlie stood in between them, unsure of which side he belonged. Fortunately, none of them seemed to have noticed his lapse.

"I'm fine," Ron grinned at his sister. "A bit exhausted, that's all."

Of course, she didn't buy his lie. He'd done it well enough, he reckoned, but this was a slip he couldn't mask. And so, he went forward with it. Trying to ignore what had just happened. Knowing that she was aware of it. Knowing that she would say nothing to anyone else; because there was some sort of bond between them which had nothing to do with blood.

And also, knowing that it was no accident. What had happened in Brazil, it was the work of a demon in flesh and bone.

Ron drew in a deep breath, trying to ignore the shaking of his hand, the frenzied heartbeat within his chest, and the loud voices at the back of his mind. They screamed at him every kind of thing. That he was not strong enough, much less to face a demon. That his venture was useless and doomed to fail. That he would fail, as he'd done every other time.

Oh, right. He was supposed to ignore them and focus on the task at hand.

Oathbinder wielded in his hands, he swung the enormous Blade around, as if trying to shoo away some invisible enemies. It was a foul technique, he knew, flawed and weak. The Blade weighed almost nothing; as if made of air. But air did not kill so easily, so eagerly, as this sword did.

"Fall back!" Gerd shouted just then.

Ron almost missed his next step as he rushed to obey her command. He jumped back, Blade before his body in a defensive stance. The pale steel gleamed under the sunlight, otherwordly beautiful, of a craft more fit to art than war. Sweat fell down his face, getting into his eyes, pooling around his hands, that so weakly held the Blade up by the hilt. And his muscles ached, so unused to this kind of training.

"Now!" she commanded next.

His left hand let go of the Blade, changing into a one-handed stance. "Alarte Ascendare!" Pointed at a bunch of wood sticks he'd gathered before the drill, they soared upward. Just to be cut in half by a swift cut of the sword. His skill was incredibly poor, and yet they snapped in half so cleanly…

"Guard up!"

This time, Ron didn't jump back. He simply raised the Blade before him, fending away whatever was to come at him, let it be invisible enemies or nonexistent spells.

"Good. You are free to rest."

With a sigh, Ron let go of the Blade for good. It banished under a puff of frost before touching the ground. He'd learned to do that well enough after a few hours of instruction. At first, it had fallen down to the grass, just as he'd had plenty of trouble to summon it.

Another proof that, whether he liked it or not, the Blade truly belonged to him.

"Be honest," Ron said after taking a long gulp of water, "that was horrible, wasn't it?" He emptied the canteen over his head, taking delight in the fresh wave—he hated training in summer.

"It was horrible," she nodded. "And it was also fitting for a beginner. It happened to me too, and to everyone else to ever wield a sword. Time and practice are the best architects for one's skill. Remember that, always."

Ron could only snort at that. "And time is what we don't have, Gerd. Did you feel my uneasiness this morning? Something happened in Brazil a few weeks ago. Something horrible. Talk is about hundreds of casualties, of Aurors and Hunters and the likes. Of soldiers and fighters, in short. I believe—no, I know deep inside me, for much I try to deny it—that it was the work of either Herpo or Voldemort. And I hope it was the first mentioned. We knew he was back. We ain't ready for one, let alone for the two of them at the same time."

Gerd took a seat in the air with her knees folded beneath. How could she look so impassive, so regal? "I did feel it. Your surprise, your anguish and fear. You do well in thinking about the worst possible scenario. And because of that, we shall resume our training and not waste a second of our lives. This venture of ours will be full of hardships, and you already know, as you already experienced. And all we-"

"And all we can do is to prepare ourselves as best as possible, as there are people who depend on us," Ron cut in, thrusting his arm forward and summoning the Blade, which appeared under a cloud of frost, drops of dew bathing its steel. "I know, Gerd. Damned it all, I know."

Drill after drill, the afternoon went by in the blink of an eye. Ron considered it a miracle he could yet stand on his feet. There was something different to this sword training; a kind of exhaustion so unlike what he was used to, regardless of magical or wrestling practice.

Oathbinder, once so light and swift, now weighed a ton. His old, white shirt was so damped in sweat that it clung to his flesh like a second skin. He let go of the Blade, sitting down with his back against a tree. Nearby, the little creek reflected the waning sun, trying to seduce Ron, enthralling him with its promise of fresh, cool water.

"You still fear the Blade," Gerd said, then.

"Of course I fear it," Ron mused back. "It kills so easily, Gerd. It is wrong, plainly as that."

"But the wand you wield every day kills as easily as the Blade does. And you do not seem to mind that."

It was a decent point, he reckoned, but it was not good enough.

"It's not the same." Ron let out a tired sigh, remembering Macnair's face and silent gasp. "That sword, it was crafted with the sole purpose of killing. Our wands, they are far more. They are life, Gerd. A wonder! They allow us to do so much… I know killing can be done so easily with a simple spell, but I haven't done that. I have killed a man with the sword, however. I don't know if it makes any sense. But for me, it does."

A brief silence fell upon them—not a silence of tension, proper of two people who couldn't understand one another, but one of those who are trying.

"You are very wise, Ronald," a feminine voice said suddenly.

Ron sprung to his feet with a start, regardless of the cramp in the back of his legs. "Who's there?" he shouted, wand before him a guarding stance.

Gerd, however, stood on the air in total calm. "It's her, Ronald. The witch we met in the Forest. Kayle's protegee. Shana."

Ron calmed down a bit. "Was that necessary, really?" he asked to the air. "I knew we were supposed to meet today. That's why I came here to train, hell, but it slipped from my mind. Oh, come on! Show yourself already!"

Snickering followed as she became visible, and all he could do was gap at the witch. She came out from a thin tree. No, she didn't come out of the tree. She had stood before the tree, leaning against it, and her pale skin and fiery-red hair and bright, yellow dress had been made of wood a second ago.

"How?" Ron asked in awe. The fact she'd startled him didn't matter anymore. Whatever she'd done, it was brilliant, period.

Grinning, Shana twisted her hand. She became a different woman. A dead woman—Faith Gourcuff.

"Illusions, remember?" she said with a far firmer and stern voice. She dispelled the Illusion away, and when she spoke, her voice was softer and kinder once more. "Not only can I impersonate people, I can wear whatever I decide to. And things such as trees, they are much easier to impersonate than a woman or a man. Far more simple, although complex in their own regard."

Gerd glided down, zipping around the witch in a flash of blue. "Amazing. How did you replicate the tree's aura? There's magic to nature, although different to what we were blessed with. And nearly impossible for us to feel; so alien, so faint. And you, however, were able to replicate it perfectly, to the point in which I was fooled like an infant."

Shana sat down on the grass, beckoning Ron to do the same. "That's my Talent, I guess," she said with a shrug. "I don't know how exactly, but I can do it. It took me years of effort and work, of failure and frustration, but I've come to master it to the best of my skills. They aren't without flaws, of course, and a good eye or ear or even a master of the Sense may be able to unmask me. I do try to stay away from impersonating other people, though. They are too complex, like I said, and I tend to lose myself in their vastness, often forgetting about my own persona."

It made little sense to Ron, but he cared not about that. He could, thanks to Gerd and her Talent, see the damn future. Compared to that, those Illusions of hers were the most ordinary thing ever.

Now that he'd sat down and calmed, with the sun waning, the cool breeze told him he didn't have much time left on the outside. "Let's be quick about this," Ron told her. "And I'm going to be quite straight with you here. What do you know about Brazil?"

Shana stared at him, as if that question had surprised her. "Brazil? About the fire in the Amazonas, you mean? I haven't looked much into it, honestly. Didn't have the time for that. But it surely didn't take sleep away from me. No, there's plenty of things to do that already."

"And don't you think it has something to do with Herpo the Foul?"

Now, that seemed to really start her, who couldn't only blink in surprise. "Do you know something I do not?"

"I know nothing, unfortunately. But I suspect a lot. Think about it. A tragedy out of nowhere, which the national media have tried to suppress—according to some native man my brother is a friend to—and which takes place just after Herpo the Foul is reborn. What a timing! I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

For almost a minute, Shana remained in silence. It put Ron on the edge, and he felt the need to end her quietness with a barrage of questions. Still he let her be. She was wiser, far more experienced and of colder mind. If she felt she needed so much time for reminiscence, it was for a reason. He fidgeted with his wand in the meantime, which made him all the more nervous.

"You might be right," Shana said, at last, with a whisper barely rising above the creek's quietness. "The world has been changing lately, and everyone has been caught in the storm. The winds carry a whisper of change, as that old fool used to say. I recall hearing things a few weeks ago. There was a gossip within the Hunter's Union. Now, I don't like them much, but they move around the world, seeing and hearing every kind of things, talking to every kind of people. And they were all pulled out of their contracts so suddenly, much to many people's dismay, regardless of how much gold was lost…"

She went silent again, deeply lost in thought. Ron could only prod at her. "And…"

"And I'm certain of nothing. But there's this man I know—not a friend, but someone I respect—that I can ask for information. He's a Hunter now, though he once fought by my side and… well, he also fought against me, though that's of no importance as of now. Yes, I will interrogate him."

Ron let out a sort of relieved sigh. Information, that's what he needed, and this woman had tools he could not even dream about. "Your allies," he went on, "did you speak to them, as you said you would? Did you…"

Shana regarded him with a raised brow. "I did speak to them, indeed. I told them about Herpo's return, I heard their cursing and heeded their advice. They prodded me about my sources and their veracity, but I had nothing to tell them in that regard. Nothing save the fact I blindly relied on the emissary. And you know why? Because I chose to trust you, Ronald Weasley. I chose to trust a naive boy of fourteen. I did so, when the world was about to be engulfed in a storm of unparalleled calamity. And it seems trust only goes one way as of today."

Ron felt his face redden a bit. "Sorry," he mused. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Oh, but you did. What you didn't mean was for me to catch it. But again, I guess I cannot blame you. You seem to have known much betrayal for a boy so young. And besides, it was me who stormed into your life out of nowhere. I shall be patient and gain your trust, I guess."

Ron gave the red-haired woman a weak smile, which she returned with one of her own, though a far wider one. "So," he began, trying to find the best words, "what comes now? We've met, as we said we would. You've told your allies about Herpo's return, and I've left Hogwarts, so I got a bit more freedom now."

"That's a good question," Shana said. "To which I barely have any answers. Indeed, the gears are buzzing and moving, the pieces are set on the table and waiting to be moved. Thing is, Ronald, war is not a game of rush and speed. It's all about action and reaction. I tried to prevent this disaster, our enemies tried to bring back a demon. I failed, they succeeded, and now they've gone into hiding. Our allies are ready, but for what? For much we try to anticipate their actions, we know nothing about them. This kind of enemy, so ancient, so beyond humanity, is unlike anything we've ever faced. No. We shall wait until they make their move, and then learn from it, and then retaliate with as much force as needed."

The cool breeze carried away her words as Ron processed them. Was it a disappointment to understand there was nothing they could do? Indeed it was. Many things had happened, and he now had allies—powerful allies, in theory. And yet the game's hand remained at a halt.

It wasn't a surprise, however. It was long ago when he understood life wasn't a fair game.

"Okay," Ron said, gulping down a knot, "let me rephrase my question. What are you going to do next?"

Shana blinked, then grinned. "Clever boy! Well, like I said, I'm going to interrogate a dear friend of old about what happened in Brazil. Of course, I will let you know via letter or whatever. There's this ally of mine who's preparing for war, rallying his forces and the sort of pureblood antics which I've always hated so profoundly. Now, about the rest… They are lesser people, sworn to one or another, so they'll do as commanded. And you? What about you?"

She'd been sincere with him, Ron reckoned, so the least he could was to pay her back in the same coin.

"I'm going to prepare myself for whatever the hell is to come," he stated. "Magic, physical condition, sword training… Whatever I must do. I have two months of freedom, as I said. And though I want to remain in the shadows, I… I will step out of them if I need to. Please, you just swear you won't let me in the dark. Ever."

Shana stood up, cleaning the skirts of her bright dress with her hands; motes of dust and dirt flew everywhere in clouds, alight as the sunlight went through them. When the boy looked up, he glimpsed a tiny ray through the small trees which surrounded the creek. Was it really so late?

"I already swore it when we first met, but I'll do it again if I must. I swear to never let you in the dark, kid. I myself have been done so, and I know how deep the wound goes and how long it takes for it to scar. More so, I will go as far as I must so you can remain in the shadows, as safe as you may be. But there will be a time in which you'll need to step out of them and fight. You are aware of that, aren't you."

Ron could not suppress the shiver that went through his body. "Yes, I'm aware of that. And I won't hesitate, come the time. I promise you that."

Shana held his gaze for a few seconds, then nodded solemnly. "I believe you, Ronald. You are a good lad. Now, is there anything else you wish to ask me about before I leave? No? Well, in that case, off I go. Take care of yourself, kid."

Ron observed her as she walked away. He hesitated, but sprung to his feet as he called out to her. There was one more question he wished to ask, in the end. Somewhat a grim curiosity of his.

"And this?" Ron took his fingers up, tracing an invisible line down his face. "Do you mind my question? I'm curious, that's all."

Shana turned around to look at him, her fingers also rising to trace down her scar. "Nope," she replied sourly. "It is a reminder of failure. A bastard did this to me, true enough, but it was my fault. It was a fight I shouldn't have lost; too important a battle. And yet I did. I'm lucky to be alive. Others were not. Innocent people who got tangled into a venture which had nothing to do with them."

"And whoever did that to you," Ron prodded, "is it one of the bad guys still?"

His question seemed to amuse Shana in a dark way, making her snort. "Oh, be assured he's a bad guy; always have and always been. Now, whether he is one of the bad guys or not, that I ignore. He used to follow Isaac the First like a lap dog; his loyal and most lethal blade. But since that old fool is dead… I can only pray that Jin the Stranger has grown tired of such madness. Or better, that someone has sunk a knife into that bastard's chest."

"Oh." Such eloquent words were all he could come up with. Jin the Stranger—it sure sounded imposing.

Twenty minutes later, he jumped over the fence and stepped into The Burrow. Smoke poured out the chimney, and the smell of food seeped through the open window to embrace him. A faint light glistened through the pulled-aside curtains, and the door was wide open to bid him welcome.

Ron stepped inside, and his mother was there to meet him, her back toward him, looming onto the large, steaming pot. "Oh, you're back!" she said, eyeing him from the corner of her eyes. "Wait, aren't Ginny and Charlie with you?"

"No?" Ron replied. "I mean, I last saw them at lunch. I've no idea where they are."

Molly turned around with a puzzled expression on her face. "If so, what have you done today? I thought you were playing Quidditch with them."

"Why, I went for a run. Stuffed myself with so much food at lunch I felt bad afterwards."

His mother stared at him, then turned sharply as the pot hissed behind her, shaking her head. "Okay, young man. You better take a shower if you want to eat at the same table as everyone else. Running? I didn't know you were into that, but it sure makes you smell wrong!"

Ron let out a tired sigh—he'd told Shana he was to enjoy a bit of freedom in these months of summer, but he wasn't so sure anymore. There was something jailing to The Burrow's monotony.

Too many eyes and too many ears around for him to fool.

Herpo the Foul was allowed entrance to a wonder of the present age.

His eyes rose in search of the grandiose structure. A spotless white tower—probably built with marble and other pristine minerals—rose so high into the air that it seemed to want to become one with the clouds. Five smaller towers, of similar composition, as if small siblings, surrounded it as they formed a pentagon.

The Tower of Merlin, he had been told.

Household to an Order of brilliant wizards and witches. Named in honour of a legendary figure born several centuries after Herpo and his generation met their end at the hands of hubris, fear and a need for violence that the most gruesome of all wars had not been able to satiate. A figure like no other before which had left its mark in the history of this world and which the winds of time seemed to favour and honour.

And to think the members of this Order had also felled themselves for a similar reason, it instilled within Herpo the seed of a thought he no longer could suppress. A seed which had grown very powerful upon centuries of slumber and reminiscence.

Emotions, therefore humanity, were a scourge to mankind. A lethal yet too-sweet poison which fooled them, filling their lives with a semblance of colour, enthralling them, deviating them from the course of greatness. Men could never hope to Ascend, for they were fated to always perish by their own hand.

Not even Herpo himself, a man aware of his own flaws, had been able to succeed.

But there might be a man, he told himself as he strode under the great arc of the Tower. Yes, there might be a man great enough to succeed where I failed.

Herpo pulled himself out of his reminiscence, allowing himself a moment to be left in utter astonishment. Yes, humanity was mankind's doom, to be always a barrier between them and the Ascension. But was it to prosperity? In that regard, Herpo doubted.

The gardens within the Tower of Merlin were a thing borne of miracles and love toward life.

A sinuous creek ran through the entire complex, surrounded by a sea of green and other lively colours. Wooden bridges arched above, connecting the different sectors. Trees of dark trunks and even darker leaves formed a wall around the entrance, standing firm and tall all around them, casting a shadow upon the visitors. Fields of flowers, towering palms, creeping vines and mossy rocks… Each delimited sector was a unique wonder, a different biome. And yet, they all merged in this garden, becoming one. As if beings with a different body yet with the same soul to share.

Amidst all the vegetation, gleams of light danced and zipped—spirits of nature, which were a far rarer sight nowadays, from what little Herpo knew of the present age. Insects, birds and other small animals, such as squirrels, fish and cats shared the place. They did not fight for its supremacy. No, they simply shared it, as did the plants.

Herpo took a stroll around the gardens, taking delight in the strength of his legs. Oh, how long had it been since he last enjoyed the perks of youth? Far too long, indeed. And this vessel was far stronger, in a physical regard, than his own body had ever been. He felt powerful enough to climb the highest of mountains, to swam through the largest of seas, and to crush his enemies beneath his heels…

"A wonder, is it not?" Xaladir mused, coming to stand beside him. "The Garden of Morgan le Fey. It has been here since the Tower came to exist. It is said the roots of these trees are as old and sturdy as the marble walls which were long raised here. I am not a man to fawn over such things, but this place always takes my breath away, no matter how used my eyes are to it."

Herpo allowed his eyes to roam free, to devour the place with his sight. "In the Ancient Times, such a place could have not existed. Back then, it was survival and war and blood. If not against the Nightamres, against one another. To conquer territory, to satiate a debt of blood, to acquire treasures and fortunes… What little remnants of beauty there were, it was a work of nature. And their fate was to become dust and cinder under our heels. Such is the price of survival, I fear."

"A balance between the two ages is what we need," Xaladir said firmly. "We best rid ourselves of today's weakness and reject that violence to our past. We must stand firm, tall and proud as we once did, though together instead of at odds with one another. Only then, a prosperous future shall be forged. Only then, we will claim our place atop the world."

"You aim high, Xaladir. As it could only be, I suppose. Were it not that way, I would remain a courseless piece of soul bonded to broken oaths. A forger of futures, you think of yourself, and therefore you shall be known as the Forger of Futures. Ah, I have known many of your kind in years past. They did not dwell well in such primitive civilizations. But today, in the Age of Light we may forge… Yes, it might be possible."

To Ascend, to reach Scala ad Caelum… The mere thought of it made Herpo shudder with emotion.

Xaladir said nothing, his eyes set on the gardens. And without a word, he beckoned Herpo to follow him further into the Tower. leading him into a large hall.

An isle of marble and glass stood amidst the greenery, a dome-like shelter. Small rivers of water flowed inward through shallow carvings upon the stone. The statue of a man stood in the middle, made of a glassy stone—perhaps obsidian, if he were to guess. He was tall and slender, yet not imposing. There was an air of kindness and wisdom to him. He carried a book in his left hand, and a long cane in the right. Circles of glowing stone, of a stark-golden like that of the sun, circled him, spiraling away into three adjacent hallways, which were connected by the large window-walls.

"The one in the middle will take you to the central Tower," Xaladir observed. "A Tower which belongs to no Master, but to the Order itself. It is where we held the councils, or where we gathered to discuss more private matters on neutral ground. It also grants entrance to the Great Library, the most complete source of knowledge in the world, greater than even those of Hogwarts and Ilvermorny."

Too majestic a place this was. And yet, for its grandiose mightiness, there was an emptiness to it which screamed louder than any voice. Herpo expanded his aura around, as far as this vessel's poor magical capacities allowed him. He felt no trace of magical presence here; not one strong enough to belong to any man, at least. Again, he had learned to not trust his magic since his rebirth, to not depend on it too much as he did in his past life. For it was like comparing a small mound of pebbles against a mighty mountain rising into the skies.

Xaladir moved around with a mask of calm and coldness, but he too was troubled by that. His Inquisitor, that rabid hound of Wolf, had ventured up the Tower with a sense of urgency as soon as they had arrived on the little island.

Its emptiness had troubled them, it seemed. Despite the stark austerity of the place, it had usually burst with life. All the servants from each Master's entourage and those common to the Tower. Erudites who came to devour all the knowledge there was in the Great Library. Rich and influential people, a select group of individuals whom the Masters used to lavish in a semblance of notoriety to earn a favour or two. From what he had been told, those always belonged to the Blood.

It had greatly amused Herpo to learn of this. It seemed the present age gave a lot of importance to those of pure blood. Back then, it had been much simpler. The Blood had embraced whoever was blessed by Magic, let it be of first, fifth or tenth generation.

Best not lose myself in the aspects of this age, he chastised himself. I must deal with a problem at a time; no more, no less. Come the time, I will know everything there is to know about the present.

The echo of footsteps, faint yet quick of stride, helped him to focus on the moment at hand. The Inquisitor trotted out the main hallway, his wand ready at hand. Herpo set his gaze on him. There was not much he could sight of the man's features, given the mask he wore, but his lips were thinned into a white line, jaw clenched.

He came to a halt before them, bowing only to Xaladir.

"There was a battle here, Master," Wolf said. Within his voice lingered a tad of ever-present rage he was not able to suppress. Ah, what an interesting subject, indeed! "It was that bastard of Jin the Stranger. We should've killed him long ago!"

Xaladir raised his hand, asking for calm from his servant. "A battle, you say?"

Wolf clenched his jaw even more. "It seems he broke out of the Tower, taking everyone with him. When the small battalion we left behind noticed his intention, they engaged in combat."

"Melissa?" Xaladir asked. "Hummad and his mercenaries? And what about my master-servant?"

"Dead, each and every one of them. Like I said, they engaged in combat, yet didn't stand much of a chance against Jin, damned be that fucker. I found their bodies in your chamber, Master. All left to rot there. Piled and lined up all together, like a sick joke of an offering. And there was a note, written in blood. It warned us about seeking retribution. I'm going to kill him, I swear!"

Herpo observed them, taking in his reactions. Wolf was a livid mess of a man—clearly, he did not care about the fate of those deceased, but about the fact their murderer had escaped. And Xaladir… Yes, he didn't care much about them either. A bit winded up, perhaps, albeit a touch sad and angry. But it seemed he thought of such losses more of a nuisance than a sorrow. How did that Stranger dare to kill his people and make him waste his time searching for others to replace the dead?

But this killer intrigued Herpo. He seemed too dangerous a man to lose sight of.

"And this man, the so-called Jin the Stranger," Herpo cut in, "was not he sworn to follow the deceased Isaac the First? Has he done this, perhaps, out of spite and grief? It is a work befit of a man who thirsts for vengeance, certainly."

"Jin the Stranger, grieve?" Wolf huffed, spatting to the floor. "That ain't a thing. It simply ain't. Most likely, he smelled something was going wrong and chose to flee before it was too late. No one makes it so old in his profession without a piece of wit and instinct."

"But he did take everyone with him, as you said," Herpo pressed on. "All the servants to every other Master and their full entourage. He left the Tower devoid of manpower, let it be guards or workers."

Xaladir's eyes vired to the south, looking up through a large window. The endless ocean was only disrupted by a large, spiralling tower of white. "Not everyone," he mused. "That fool of Lawrence is here still. I know that. He would never dare to abandon the Tower. To leave behind his lifetime's work and investigation."

Lawrence. That name felt familiar. Herpo searched through the vessel's memories. Yes, there was this man, old and strange. They had interacted very little, merely a cross of glances without a single word. He was another Master; the Third, to be exact.

Herpo took a step toward the main hallway. "I want to lose myself in the vastness of the Tower," he said. "And to pay this Lawrence a visit, to speak with another brilliant mind."

Xaladir's gaze hardened, yet was wise enough to not make a comment. For how proud he was, he still knew better than to dare to order Herpo around.

"I will see to the mending of the Order, then," Xaladir said instead. "We are in need of severe labour hand. And of guards too. Wolf, you are to handle this matter. And be extraordinarily strict with the men of arms. We must not allow another treason from within these walls. Gold and influence from the noblest and fairest stratum of our society must return. And our strength shall be feared and revered. I, in the meantime, will try to restore our notoriety. People shall learn of the Order's rebirth, and we shall be known by everyone instead of a few selected. A dragon with one strong head instead of five biting at one another. That is the way to go. Our only chance to found a new Age."

Herpo nodded to his speech. Xaladir would be an interesting piece to this game. Be too lax on him, and he might grow too unruly. Be too strict on him, and his pride might ruin Herpo's fate.

That thought was banished from his mind the moment he was left alone, however. Herpo could count with the fingers of his hands the times he had been left astonished beyond words. This was the latest, but also the least gruesome and most fantastic of all.

The Tower of Merlin, the mightiest of all six, proved to be even more astonishing from the inside if that was even possible.

Tall columns of chiselled marble hold the vault. The floor, of a likewise stark and pristine material, was often streaked by strata of basalt and other darker rocks and minerals. The walls around a closed hallway had been carved with complex patterns which made no sense but that of artistry to the wandering eye, but as soon as one was to eye them carefully, their astonishing nature truly made sense. No line had been carved for the sake of it. A master of its art had dedicated his entire lifetime to this, and it showed.

As soon as he rounded a corner into another hallway, a long staircase grew into the inner wall. Long, straight and covered by a red carpet which fell all the way down. Upon reaching its end, albeit stepping into the upper level of the Tower, Herpo was almost blinded by the sudden brightness. Because here, on this level, the outer walls were made of clean, spotless glass; a window into the endless ocean.

Herpo took the long way around the Tower of Merlin, losing himself inside, venturing into the outer pentagon, allowing his legs to wander as they fancied, gifting his sight with wonders his ancient mind was barely able to comprehend.

It did not take him much to understand the many differences among the five outer towers.

The First Tower, once household to Isaac, was full of lavish and embroidery. Art pieces of many kinds—let it be drawings, sculptures or blacksmith jobs—filled the place with colour and a semblance of importance. Yes, indeed. Isaac felt himself important, and he wanted the world to understand it. The doors had knobs of gold and silver, the carpets of thread so exquisite one could feel it even through their shoes.

Within Isaac's chambers, he found a majestic tapestry which threaded through his lineage. At the top of it, there was a name Herpo had heard plenty since his rebirth—Merlin. Isaac himself had no children, therefore his blood was doomed to end in too silent a conclusion.

A pity, indeed.

Xaladir's was far more austere, however. Full of stark colours and sharp angles. It gave Herpo the impression of a man who did not desire to stand out. Silent and shady, like the man himself. And that lack of everything screamed of secrets buried deep within.

The Fourth Tower, which had once belonged to Aura the Fourth, was far more difficult to classify. It was, by far, the most tidy and clean of all. And not the most austere, for that right belonged to Xaladir's, but the simplest. Perhaps this woman had not liked to stay in the Tower for long periods of time. Wherever Herpo went, the place seemed abandoned. Only the upper levels, where the woman's chambers stood, had a bit of life to them.

And wherever he went, Herpo noticed something amiss. Despite Wolf's words, there were no signs of battle. Not a spot of blood, nor the scent of smoke and rot, nor a single scratch upon the walls or floor. Someone had taken a great interest in having it all obscured, covering the Tower with a cloth of normality and peace.

And it could only be the work of one person.

It was a short walk to the Third Tower, as it was connected to the Fourth by a large passage proximate to their peaks. It was closed by an arched ceiling, but the walls were again of clean glass.

Herpo felt a presence nearby, finally! He ignored the anger he felt at being so useless, reminding himself his role was not as it had once been. Power would not be needed in this second chance.

He found an open door, and he simply stepped through it.

It was a large chamber which led to a large balcony. And quite an unusual sight when compared to the rest of the Tower. His eyes had grown so used to the starkness and elegance of the marble that he instantly missed it. For here, the walls were covered by countless bookshelves filled with books, parchments and tablets; some of them arranged in meticulous tidiness, most with that chaotic organization only proper of a scholar. There was an oval window through which the sunlight seeped through, and under which an enormous wooden desk stood before.

And there he was, his prey.

Sat upon a chair of high back there was a man as old as Herpo had ever seen. Tall, white-haired, with a short, messy beard. Bearing a semblance of strength not even the rivers of time had been able to topple yet, despite the hump of his spine and the frailty of his fingers. A thick book rested on his lap, and a quill lay forgotten on the aforementioned desk.

The old man beckoned Herpo to come closer with a nod of his head.

Herpo did so, ignoring the way his eyes lingered on him. Without a trace of fear or worry within them. That look, it was full of curiosity! Men in this age had grown to be quite strange, indeed.

"Ah, Captain Jordan, I never thought I'd see you again!" the old man said chirpily once Herpo came to stand before the table, looking down at him. He set the book on the table, closing it with a sigh. "Oh, but what am I saying? You do not know me and I do not know you, for we have never met before. The man whose body you took, I held him in high regard, Herpo the Foul. He was a clever lad, interesting to a fault! And it seems he reached too far, finally."

"Spare me the idle talk, old man," Herpo said. "I do know you, Lawrence the Third. And that allows me to say that, unfortunately, you are not so interesting a man."

Something flicked within his eyes—something brief and subtle. Oh, perhaps this man would not be as ordinary as Herpo had thought of him.

"You possess his memories, then." His voice merely a whisper, it held all emotions at bay. Devoid of such loud and often compromising touch, raw and primitive as words were not by themselves, it made him a man hard to read. Like a rhythmless melody. "I am truly astonished. What you did, Herpo, is as much of a wonder as it is a horror. I never thought it possible, as did many scholars before and during my time. Much less this flawlessly. It seems death's embrace is nothing but a caress to you."

"You simply lacked the ambition."

It enraged Herpo to even think of it. Men as brilliant as the old fool before him, blessed with enough talent, wit and opportunities. Born in a peaceful time, safe from death's embrace and war's hands. Safe from that violent fire that consumed it all. And yet they lacked the ambition. The will. That need to achieve a feat far greater than oneself. There was a reason the Ascension had not been reached yet. And it had a name—plenty of names, actually, those of the weak and self-satisfacent.

Regular and ordinary people were not to blame, of course, for they were never supposed to do anything but to be born and die, going through a life of mundanity and mediocrity. It was people such as Herpo himself, such as Xaladir and this fool of Lawrence, who needed to rise higher and seize greatness and never let go of it. Pain was nothing when compared to greatness. Nor were sorrow and solitude.

"Or perhaps because I am not a monster," Lawrence observed, calm as ever. "Because I assure you I am quite ambitious. Far too much for my own good, many would argue, in fact. But let us skip this matter, as it has no importance to any of us. I am sure you think lowly of me, and you must already understand I think of you as a monster beyond salvation. Be frank with me, Herpo. What do you want? Why did you come here?"

"And how do you know I want something, old fool?"

"Oh, because the winds of change spoke of you! Their whisper is a faint one, almost unintelligible. But for us, those few who learned to understand them, they rumble with a thunderous voice. And they had a lot to say about you, they sure did! They told me of the earth's weeping, of the cinder carried by the breeze and the blood scourging the rivers…"

Herpo tensed subtly. And the storming elderly noticed it!

Lawrence hesitated, and his dramatism met its end by the hands of… fear, mayhaps? "Oh," he whispered. "It wasn't you, was it? Then, if so…"

Herpo yearned for the answer to that question. He too had heard of the calamity beyond the sea. In fact, Wolf had interrogated one of those fools called Hunters—and Herpo had shaken his head in disappointment, for he thought it an insult to the audacity of those people to name themselves after the great and graceless warriors of old. What he had confessed had made him shudder in worry.

Who was behind those hordes of hell? Niklos, his envious brother? Kadir, that witless brute full of vengeance? And how, in the sacred name of Magic, had they managed to submit the Nightmares beneath their heels? Utter madness, it was.

Words pulled Herpo out of his reminiscence, and found he had missed a part of the conversation, for Lawrence had gone past his questions, knowing he would not get an answer out of him.

"I fear my beloved Order is no more," Lawrence sighed. "Isaac, the First Master and last descendant of Merlin himself, is dead. Xaladir the Second has risen victorious in their silent war, but at what price? My dear Aura, she has left us, now free of her vows. And Adigele the Fifth, that poor girl was never enough, merely a replacement for too large a hole my beloved Shana left behind when she turned against us."

His eyes hardened suddenly, giving the impression of icy pits. "And you are to take this place are your seat, right, Herpo the Foul? May I wonder why?"

I must focus. People in this age are not as weak and frail as I once regarded them. The easy, soft times in which they live have not made them weak. On the contrary, it has spurred them to cling to life even more fiercely. A mistake on my behalf, and I will fail again. And this time there will be no second chances, I fear.

Herpo stood up taller, straightening his back. He regarded the old man with a calm stare. In his eyes, he saw no thirst for vengeance nor power. This scholar was a loose end to treat lightly, yes, but never an enemy. Herpo had known many of his kind throughout his life, most of them Accolytes of the Citadel, even those arrogant Sages. One could control them well enough by allowing them freedom and time to mind their research, but never too much. He was but another of those—a slightly more dangerous one, if so.

"Because this place is the embodiment of what I always dreamed of," Herpo told him in a whisper. "Evolution, prosperity, cohesion… Yes, I will build the foundation of a new Age from here. This is a worthy seat for a God. And let it be known that here and today, another Age was born anew—the Age of Light."

Mankind would Ascend, and it would reach Scala ad Caelum. Herpo swore long ago to never forswear that duty of his. And he would at last become the First God. For he had learned in his long slumber that God was not to change ungrateful and ordinary people, but to mould the idea of a better world, to become an embodiment of such ideal, to inspire great men to take that duty upon themselves.

To change them, God needed his Prophet.