Legacy of the Basilisk

by wolf970

The Horcrux is destroyed in the chamber. Harry will find out about his family, his place in the magical world, and perhaps a family and love.

38. Chapter 38

Chapter 323 "ICW Looks for Answers"

Ambassador Calista Vyrden of the ICW, known for her commanding presence and silver-streaked auburn hair, approached the towering gates of the Vatican with her contingent of bodyguards. Her emerald robes, embroidered with intricate golden runes, shimmered faintly as they caught the morning light. Her guards, clad in lightweight enchanted armor, moved silently yet vigilantly at her side.

The gates of the Vatican were a marvel to behold, standing nearly thirty feet high and wrought from pure silver infused with blessed gold. Intricate carvings depicted scenes of divine battles, saints, and miracles, glowing faintly with the protective runes etched into every curve. The gates themselves pulsed with sanctified magic, warding against any unholy presence. As Ambassador Vyrden and her entourage approached, the gates shimmered with an ethereal light, responding to the presence of the sanctified guards who stood watch.

The Sanctified Sentinels of the Holy Throne, the Vatican's elite defenders, were a sight of awe and intimidation. Standing seven feet tall, they were clad in gleaming white armor edged with golden filigree, enchanted to withstand even the most potent magical attacks. Their helmets bore the sigil of the Holy Throne, a radiant cross surrounded by a halo, with slits that hid their eyes but glowed faintly with divine energy. In their hands, they carried halberds imbued with holy power, the blades pulsing with a faint white glow.

The leader of the Sentinels stepped forward, his voice deep and resonant, as if carrying the weight of a hymn. "State your name and purpose before entering the sanctified grounds of the Holy Throne."

Ambassador Vyrden inclined her head, her voice calm and firm. "I am Ambassador Calista Vyrden of the International Confederation of Wizards. I am here to meet with Bishop Dominic on urgent matters concerning an incursion."

The Sentinel leader nodded, his halberd tapping the ground in acknowledgment. The massive gates began to open with a soft, harmonious hum, revealing the path to the Vatican's inner sanctum. "Enter with peace, Ambassador, and may the light of the Holy Throne guide your steps."

Bishop Dominic strode down the long, marble-lined corridor towards his office when the Mediator fell silently into step beside him. He glanced over, her silver hair catching the sunlight streaming through the high arched windows, her violet silver eyes glowing faintly.

"Good morning, Primarch. How fares your morning?" he asked, his tone light, but his mind was already racing with the day's responsibilities.

The Mediator chuckled softly, sounding like chiming bells. "Please, Bishop Dominic, call me Mediator. Formalities are not necessary between us."

Dominic allowed a small smile to grace his face. "As you wish, Mediator. Though I suspect this is no casual visit. Something must be stirring. The ICW Ambassador has arrived and is waiting for me in my office. There's something urgent they wish to discuss."

The Mediator tilted her head slightly, her serene expression giving nothing away. "That's precisely why I'm here," she said, her voice carrying the weight of certainty. "I had a vision this morning. I believe I'll be needed in this meeting."

Dominic raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was still adjusting to the Mediator's otherworldly insights and her ability to communicate directly into his mind. It allowed them to converse in silence, a practice he was starting to appreciate for its efficiency.

"Well," he thought, directing the words toward her, "this is certainly ominous. If your vision drew you here, it must be more critical than I anticipated. Though I can't imagine what the ICW might require that warrants such urgency."

The Mediator smiled faintly, her tone light despite the gravity of her words. "Perhaps it's nothing. Or perhaps it's something of great consequence. Let us find out together."

Dominic nodded as they reached his office door. He pushed it open, bracing himself for what awaited.

As they entered the office, the ICW ambassador stood to greet them. She was a poised and sharp-eyed woman with a commanding presence. Her crisp robes bore the insignia of the ICW, denoting her high rank. She extended a hand to Bishop Dominic, who accepted it warmly.

"It's good to see you again, Bishop Dominic," the Ambassador began. Her gaze shifted to the Mediator. "However, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your companion."

Dominic gestured toward the Mediator with a small smile. "Allow me to introduce the Primarch of the Sanctus Cogitatio."

The Ambassador's brows lifted slightly, her diplomatic mask momentarily slipping as she swiftly deciphered the title. "Primarch of the Sanctus Cogitatio," she repeated slowly, her voice hinting at intrigue. "I must admit, I was unaware the Church utilized psykers in such a capacity."

The Mediator stepped forward gracefully, her violet-silver eyes glinting with quiet authority. "It is no secret," she said, her voice calm but firm. "The Church has always worked with those gifted in psychic abilities. The difference now is transparency. But let us set aside the past for the moment and focus on why you are here."

The Ambassador, Vyrden, nodded, adjusting her posture. "Of course," she said, offering a polite smile. "There was an incident in a remote Norwegian village. Reports indicate an attack of a significant scale. The attackers left signs of advanced and alien technology and disturbing evidence of dark magic. The ICW is concerned about the implications."

Dominic frowned, glancing at the Mediator. "An attack involving both alien technology and dark magic? That is a troubling combination."

Dominic's expression remained composed, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "That is certainly unusual," he said smoothly. "Do you know why the village was targeted?"

The Ambassador, Vyrden, tilted her head, a faint smirk playing at her lips. "Let's dispense with the formalities, Bishop," she said, her tone cutting through the room like a knife. "We both know the Church was involved."

Dominic raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his silence inviting her to continue. Vyrden reached into her robe and pulled out a small, circular device. Placing it on the desk, she activated it with a tap. A shimmering holographic image sprung to life, displaying a fierce battle in vivid detail: an Eternal Imperial Church destroyer locked in combat with an unidentified vessel. Energy bolts and missiles streaked across the scene, explosions lighting up the skies.

"I trust this looks familiar," Vyrden said, folding her arms and leaning slightly forward. "Our observers caught this engagement near the village in question. An Eternal Imperial Church destroyer engages an unknown ship—an event that aligns suspiciously with the attack on the village. So, let's not pretend ignorance. Your ship's presence speaks volumes, as does the presence of your esteemed Mediator."

The Mediator stepped forward, her calm demeanor unshaken. "You are correct," she said plainly. "The Church was indeed involved, though not in the way you might suspect. Our intervention ensured the ship was neutralized. We had no idea they placed people on the ground. As for the vessel, it was determined to be hostile and dealt with accordingly."

Dominic clasped his hands behind his back, his tone steady. "We have no interest in games, Ambassador. If you wish for cooperation, I suggest asking your questions directly."

Vyrden's eyes narrowed, but she nodded, the tension in the room palpable. "Then let us proceed."

Dominic shook his head firmly. "The Eternal Church had no involvement with the village itself. Our ship detected an unknown vessel displaying hostile intent, and it was swiftly neutralized."

The Ambassador, Vyrden, smiled slyly. "Neutralized—and then claimed as a prize, no doubt."

The Mediator nodded and said. "That is correct. Under the laws of engagement, a vessel taken in battle becomes the property of the victor. The Eternal Church acted within its rights."

Vyrden's smile widened, and she tapped the device on the desk. The holographic display shimmered to life again, shifting to show a scene of chaos in a snowy village. A man and a young girl were seen sprinting through the snow, pursued by reptilian creatures resembling lizardmen. The creatures tore through the village, leaving destruction in their wake as the pair fled into the forest.

The image shifted forward, showing the man turning to face his pursuers. He brandished a glowing staff, unleashing powerful magical attacks against the lizardmen, who fell under his onslaught. The hologram continued, revealing a flying alien figure with an elongated head. The being fired beams of light that struck the man, dropping him to the ground. A moment later, the alien itself exploded in fiery pieces.

As the scene concluded, the image focused on the man who had brought down the alien. The hologram froze, leaving no doubt about his identity.

Both Dominic and the Mediator immediately recognized him. "Lord Hadrian Potter-Black," the Mediator murmured, her calm mask slipping briefly.

Dominic's expression tightened. "This... complicates matters," he admitted.

Vyrden leaned back, crossing her arms. "I'd say it does. Care to explain how Lord Potter-Black found himself in a battle involving lizardmen and alien technology?"

The room fell silent, the weight of the revelation palpable.

The Mediator's voice echoed in Dominic's mind through their link. "I must seek the Pope immediately. This is far worse than I feared. I recognize the beings in that hologram, and their presence is an ill omen. The fact that the Child of Fate is now entangled in this makes it even more concerning. I will leave to speak with His Holiness at once."

Dominic gave her a slight nod, his face unreadable. The Ambassador, Vyrden, watched them both keenly, her sharp gaze taking in every subtle reaction. "It seems you both know something that I don't," she said with a sly smile. "But allow me to assure you—this is only the beginning. This is the first confirmed contact with these particular beings, and I am far from done showing you what I've gathered."

She tapped the device again, and the holographic display shifted once more. A massive, grotesque barge filled the air this time, floating ominously above the battlefield. The hologram depicted the hulking form of a monstrous creature, unmistakably a Splugorth Lord, flanked by ten women in crimson armor. Their movements were precise, calculated, and deadly.

The Mediator gasped audibly, her usually composed demeanor shattering as she instinctively stepped back, her face pale. "A Splugorth Lord," she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief. "What happened to it? Did it escape? Did it retreat from the battlefield?"

Vyrden raised an eyebrow at the Mediator's reaction, clearly intrigued. "You know of this creature? Interesting. According to my sources, the enemy forces were utterly destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Dominic asked, his brow furrowing deeply. "By what means?"

The hologram flickered as the Ambassador tapped the device again, revealing a towering, ten-foot Greater Fire Elemental moving methodically through the forest. Its massive form radiated intense heat as it consumed everything in its path, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind.

"It appears Lord Potter-Black ensured that no trace of the battle remained," the Ambassador stated, her tone a mixture of astonishment and curiosity. "No single body of those creatures—or any evidence of their existence—was left behind. Though still functional, the wards could only record fragments of what occurred. The confrontation involving this Splugorth Lord, as you called it, and the ten armored figures in red? Completely unrecorded. All traces were obliterated by that elemental."

The Mediator's eyes narrowed as she processed the information. "A Splugorth Lord, defeated... and by a single wizard? Even Lord Potter-Black couldn't possibly—"

"It's impossible," the Ambassador interrupted. She leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "You seem to know quite a bit about these creatures, Mediator. Perhaps more than you're letting on."

The Mediator turned abruptly and strode out of the room, her expression dark and unreadable.

"Where is she going?" the Ambassador asked, her voice tinged with frustration.

Dominic sighed, his gaze following the Mediator's retreating form. "It seems our answers will have to wait. She's going to speak with His Holiness, Pope Castellano."

The Ambassador shook her head, visibly unsatisfied. "I trust this isn't the last you will hear about this matter."

Dominic nodded curtly. "Rest assured, Ambassador, this is far from over."

Chapter 324 "New Enemies"

The grand wooden doors to the Pope's chamber opened, and the Mediator walked in with a determined stride. Pope Castellano looked up from his desk with a knowing smile.

"These meetings are becoming far too regular," he said, gesturing for her to enter further. "And when they are, it usually means trouble. Let me guess—Hadrian Potter-Black is somehow tangled in whatever you're here to tell me."

The Mediator froze mid-step and was caught off guard. "How did you know?"

The Pope chuckled softly and motioned for her to sit. He reached for a bottle of wine and began pouring two glasses. "It seems that all our conversations these days have a way of circling back to that young man. He's become quite the lightning rod for destiny, hasn't he?"

She sat down, accepted his offered glass, and took a sip. "It does seem that way," she admitted. "And this time, the matter is even graver than before."

The Pope leaned back, his expression growing serious. "Let me hear it."

The Mediator placed her glass on the table. "The alien ship I was preparing to investigate is confirmed to be a Kittani raider. How do I know this, you ask? I don't need to examine the ship directly. It became clear after speaking with Ambassador Vyrden and reviewing her intelligence."

The Pope raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"She revealed an attack on a Norwegian village," the Mediator continued. "The targets were a man and a young girl. But the most alarming part came next—a descending slaver barge carrying a Splugorth Lord and his Altara warrior bodyguards. All of them, Pope Castellano—every last one—were killed in battle."

The Pope's eyes narrowed. "By whom?"

The Mediator's tone was grave. "By none other than Lord Hadrian Potter-Black."

The Pope let out a deep breath, setting his glass down deliberately. "I have never heard of a Splugorth Lord before."

"This isn't just a skirmish, Your Holiness. The Splugorth have revealed themselves as a new enemy, and Hadrian's involvement in their defeat guarantees their attention is now drawn to us."

The Pope leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "So, we now face a foe from beyond the stars, and the one man capable of combating them is still little more than a boy."

The Mediator met his gaze, her voice steady. "A boy in name only, Your Holiness. He's a force to be reckoned with, and the Splugorth learned that firsthand."

The Mediator rose from her chair, her expression resolute. "I must speak with Hadrian directly. Now that I hold the title of Primarch, I request permission to seek him out and discuss this matter personally."

Pope Castellano regarded her thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile. "Permission?" he echoed. "From this point forward, you need no permission to seek answers, Primarch. Your authority grants you the freedom to act as necessary. Go and find what you need."

The Mediator inclined her head in gratitude, prepared to leave, but the Pope's voice stopped her.

"However," he added, his tone firm, "you will not go unguarded. No Primarch of the Sanctus Cogitatio can operate without their protection. You will take your guard."

The Mediator's lips pressed together, the beginnings of an argument forming, but she quickly reconsidered. She bowed her head respectfully. "Of course, Your Holiness. It will be done as you command."

Pope Castellano chuckled, his demeanor softening slightly. "Good. And when you have the answers, keep me informed. This new threat requires our vigilance. And," he added with amusement, "please ensure Bishop Dominic is also updated. He does get rather grouchy when left out of the loop."

The Mediator allowed herself a small smile at the comment. "Of course, Your Holiness. I will ensure he is kept informed."

"Good," the Pope said, raising his hand in blessing. "Go now, and may your path be clear."

Without another word, the Mediator turned on her heel and strode toward the exit, her mind already racing with the implications of what lay ahead. As she walked through the grand halls of the Vatican Fortress, her steps quickened. She reached the transport room, where her guard was already assembling, their polished armor gleaming under the sanctified light of the chamber.

With a nod to her waiting escort, she stepped into the center of the room, the teleportation platform glowing faintly with energy. She spared a glance back, her thoughts momentarily returning to the Pope's words. She was no longer merely an advisor or enforcer—she was a Primarch entrusted with a mission of unprecedented importance.

As the platform hummed to life and the air shimmered with magic, she whispered, "Time to find the truth." Moments later, she vanished in a flash of light, her destination clear: Hadrian Potter-Black.

Chapter 325 "Meeting At Hogwarts"

Captain Leonidas sat in a shadowed corner of the Three Broomsticks Inn, nursing a dwarven ale that foamed richly in his tankard. The lively chatter and clinking of glasses around him barely registered. Suddenly, his gauntlet vibrated, the sensation jolting him upright. With a practiced motion, he cast a silent bubble around his table, muffling the noise and ensuring his conversation would remain private.

"Go for Stavros," he said, his tone sharp and professional.

"Captain, this is Moreau," came the voice of the Supreme Mugwump's chief of staff, his words clipped and urgent. "Are you in contact with Colonel Kostas?"

Stavros straightened in his chair, his expression tightening. It wasn't every day the chief of staff contacted him directly. "No, sir," he replied, his voice steady but laced with curiosity. "The Supreme Mugwump departed for Hogwarts last night, and Colonel Kostas accompanied him as his guard. They've yet to return, and we're awaiting their arrival."

There was a pause, the crackle of the enchanted communication line the only sound. "Damn it," Moreau muttered. "This complicates things. An attack occurred on a Norwegian village, and the creatures responsible are unlike anything we've seen before. The Supreme Mugwump must be debriefed immediately."

Stavros's jaw tightened. "Understood, sir. Should I attempt to contact them?"

"yes, go to Hogwarts and brief The Supreme Mugwump. I will send you the file shortly," Moreau instructed. " Captain, be ready to move."

"Yes, sir," Stavros replied crisply. As the communication line went dead, he lowered his arm and dissolved the bubble of silence. The bustling noise of the inn rushed back in, but his mind was elsewhere.

The bustling town of Hogsmeade fell silent, the festive chatter fading as the townsfolk turned their attention to the street. Windows swung open, and villagers gathered near the edges of the cobblestone paths, their gazes fixed on the approaching figures. At the forefront was a striking figure—statuesque, standing six feet tall, her radiant purple skin shimmering as though kissed by starlight. Her long, silver hair flowed like liquid moonlight, cascading down her back in a flawless, glowing stream. Her eyes, an entrancing swirl of violet and silver, held an ancient wisdom that seemed to pierce through time. Delicate, pointed ears peeked through her tresses, emphasizing her otherworldly elegance. Her presence radiated authority and calm power as if she were a bridge between realms of magic and wisdom.

Surrounding her were twenty armored guards, their medium tactical suits a marvel of craftsmanship. Sleek and segmented, the armor shimmered with a muted gold sheen and was inscribed with runic symbols that pulsed faintly with magic. They moved precisely, their steps synchronized, and their eyes—visible through their angular visors—scanned the surroundings with a military focus. Each carried weapons designed for both magical and physical combat, the hilts of their swords etched with glowing sigils.

One of the Aurors on duty, a wiry young man named Maryland, fumbled for his communication badge, his voice tight with urgency. "Auror Maryland reporting. We have a group of 21 from the Eternal Church approaching Hogwarts. Sir, one is...something I've never seen before." He quickly described the leader's appearance.

"Very well, Auror," came the reply from Captain Darrow. "Trail them discreetly and keep watch. I'll alert Master Chief Moody."

Moody was en route to the Director's office when his badge vibrated. "Go for Moody," he grunted.

"Sir," came Captain Darrow's voice, crisp with urgency. "Reports confirm a delegation from the Eternal Church is approaching Hogwarts. They are led by a figure who fits no known classification. Orders?"

Moody's magical eye swiveled, scanning the hall. "Maintain distance, Captain. I'll alert the proper channels. Director Bones needs to be informed."

The heavy wooden doors to the training room creaked open, and Daphne, Tracy, and Fleur stepped inside. Their eyes immediately fell on Harry, dressed in fitted black trousers, combat boots, and a simple black t-shirt, beads of sweat glistening on his skin as he moved. Across from him stood Ten, the Altara warrior who had sworn herself to his service. Her ash-blonde hair was slicked back from exertion, and tight black leggings and a cropped combat top showcased her lean, muscular frame. She moved with deadly precision, her steel blade catching the light as she circled Harry like a predator stalking its prey.

The clang of steel meeting steel echoed in the room as Harry and Ten closed the distance, their swords dancing with rapid, calculated strikes. Harry's movements were fluid, his footwork precise, as he matched Ten's blistering speed with his own. The girls watched in awe, their eyes struggling to track the flurry of blows and counterattacks.

Ten spun low, her blade slicing horizontally toward Harry's legs. He jumped, the edge narrowly missing his boots, and countered with a quick downward slash aimed at her exposed shoulder. Ten twisted mid-air, avoiding the strike by a hair's breadth, and landed lightly on her feet. She was immediately on the offensive again, lunging forward with a rapid thrust. Harry sidestepped, deflecting the attack with a sharp parry, and used his momentum to drive the back of his elbow into the side of her head. The impact sent her stumbling sideways, but she recovered instantly, spinning like a coiled spring to strike at his midsection.

Harry intercepted the swing with a resounding clash of steel, angling her blade away and stepping inside her guard. He drove his forehead into her nose with a sickening crack. Ten staggered backward, her hand darting to her face as blood began to trickle from her nostrils, but her head tilted toward Harry. She leaped back to create distance, her blade slicing upward in a diagonal arc as she did. Harry's downward strike narrowly missed her, the steel hissing as it cut through the air.

Ten landed and twisted with lightning speed, her body a blur as she launched into a spinning attack. Harry sidestepped at the last possible moment, his blade catching her across the back in a shallow but stinging cut. She hissed in pain but didn't falter, pivoting like a viper and aiming a vicious horizontal slash at Harry's ribs. He parried, the clash reverberating through the room, and stepped forward with practiced efficiency. With his free hand, he shoved her off balance before slashing his blade across her midsection in a controlled strike.

Ten hit the mat hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she lay on her back, her blade still clutched in her hand. Blood trickled from her nose and the shallow wounds Harry had inflicted, but her lips curled into a fierce grin of respect. Harry lowered his sword, offering her his hand.

"Not bad," he said with a faint smile.

Ten clasped his hand, pulling herself up. "Not bad yourself, my lord," she replied, her voice breathless but full of admiration.

Harry waved his hand, a soft green hue engulfing Ten's battered form. The faint shimmer of magic enveloped her like a cocoon, and before the girls' eyes, her injuries began to vanish—cuts closed seamlessly, bruises faded, and her breathing steadied. Ten stood straighter, her expression a mix of gratitude and pride as she nodded at Harry.

"What are you two doing?" Daphne asked, her arms crossed, but her tone was more curious than scolding.

"Yeah," Tracy chimed in, her eyes darting between Harry and Ten. "It looked like you two were trying to kill each other."

Fleur, however, was fixated on their sparring outfits, her sharp gaze noting the practicality of their design. "Harry," she began, her voice soft but probing, "is this necessary?"

Harry turned to his three girlfriends, a sheepish smile spreading. "We're training. Ten is helping me refine my sword technique, and I am learning to internalize my magic—to make myself faster, stronger." He gestured vaguely toward the training mat as if it were all perfectly routine.

"Wait," Fleur interrupted, her curiosity piqued. "You can use magic that way? To enhance your physical abilities?"

Harry shrugged modestly. "I'm not sure if everyone can, but I can. It's something I've been working on. It levels the playing field against naturally faster or stronger opponents than me."

Tracy laughed, shaking her head. "Only you, Harry, would decide to casually do the impossible as if it were just another day."

Daphne smiled, walking closer. "And only you would downplay it like it's no big deal. Still, it's impressive—if a little reckless."

Ten, who had remained silent, inclined her head slightly. "The lord is adaptable. It's why he wins."

The girls exchanged amused but proud glances, fully aware that Harry's drive to grow stronger was both endearing and maddening.

Harry glanced at Ten, sensing something mere words could express. "Ever since the battle, I feel like we've... bonded. Ten says she feels faster, stronger than before we met," he explained, his brow furrowed in thought.

Daphne stepped closer, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean by bonded?" she asked, calm but curious.

Harry instinctively stepped back, hands raised in defense. "Wait! When I say bonded, I mean my magic touched hers—nothing else!" His voice rose slightly, tinged with panic.

Ten tilted her head in her characteristic, almost mechanical way. "If the lord wishes to use my body, it is at his disposal," she said without any embarrassment.

Harry's face turned bright red as he turned toward Ten, visibly exasperated. "Not helping, Ten! Not. Helping," he muttered, throwing his hands in the air.

Daphne stepped closer again, her expression softening into a teasing smile. "Calm down, Harry," she said, kissing him. Her lips brushed his, and his tension melted away for a moment. She pulled back, still smiling. "I'm beginning to think you somehow collect beautiful women," she teased, her tone light and playful.

Tracy and Fleur chuckled from the sidelines, their laughter filling the room. Ten, entirely unfazed, shrugged as if this entire exchange were normal.

"Are we finished, my lord?" Ten asked, her tone neutral as she gathered the swords and training equipment scattered across the floor. Her movements were fast and deliberate, and each item was carefully returned to the rack with an efficiency born of training and discipline.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Yes, Ten. We're done for now," he said, shaking his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he glanced at Daphne, Tracy, and Fleur. "I swear, you lot are going to be the death of me."

Chapter 326 "Explanations"

Elizabeth glanced up from her desk as the door opened, revealing Moody striding in with his usual unrelenting energy. "Good morning, Master Chief Moody," she greeted, her tone formal and professional.

Moody raised an eyebrow and gave her a wry smile. "Elizabeth, you're my niece. It's 'Uncle,' young lady."

Elizabeth shook her head firmly, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "I'm sorry, Master Chief Moody. While we're on duty, you're Master Chief, and I'm Personal Assistant Harrington." She emphasized her title, clearly enjoying the banter.

Moody shook his head with a grumble and pushed the door to the Director's office open without waiting for Elizabeth to announce him. She just laughed softly, already familiar with his ways, and moved to prepare tea for the two of them.

Inside, Director Amelia Bones looked up from her paperwork, her expression neutral but curious. "Morning, Alastor. It's early for our briefing."

Moody stepped in, his tone low but urgent. "Something's come up." He paused, waiting for her attention to settle on him entirely. "It seems a delegation from the Eternal Imperial Church was spotted passing through Hogsmeade on its way to Hogwarts. One of our Aurors is trailing them as we speak."

Director Bones rose from her chair, her expression sharpening. "Interesting. I think it's time we visited Hogwarts ourselves."

Moody's face split into a rare grin. "That's exactly what I was thinking," he said with a chuckle.

The two moved with purpose, exiting the office together as Elizabeth returned with a tray of tea, only to find the room empty. She sighed, shaking her head fondly. "Typical," she muttered, tidying up the tray before returning to work.

The Great Hall was alive with a hum of conversation, but exhaustion was etched on every face after the long and taxing night. Dumbledore and Sebastion were deep in conversation at the staff table, their discussion shifting effortlessly between politics and the aftermath of recent events. Colonel Kostas sat beside the Supreme Mugwump, her demeanor calm, but her sharp eyes fixed intently on Lord Harry Potter-Black as if analyzing his every move.

At the Slytherin table, Harry sat surrounded by his closest friends and girlfriends. Daphne, Tracy, and Fleur were talking quietly amongst themselves, occasionally throwing fond smiles in Harry's direction. Draco and Neville were engaged in a lively debate about dueling techniques, their animated gestures drawing laughs from the group.

Luna Lovegood sat contentedly among them, a serene smile on her face. Despite the fresh loss of her father, her spirit seemed unshaken. Harry had insisted on her presence, determined to ensure she felt supported by her chosen family. In front of her sat a bowl of pudding, the single indulgence Harry had allowed her for the day.

"You know this is a one-time thing," Harry said, mock scolding her as she eagerly took another spoonful of pudding.

Luna grinned mischievously, her eyes sparkling. "Of course, brother," she replied, savoring the sweet treat. "But isn't it a big brother's job to spoil his little sister occasionally?"

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm starting to think I've created a monster."

The table erupted in soft laughter, the camaraderie and warmth providing a much-needed reprieve from the chaos of the previous days. Even amidst the tension of the larger world, here, at this moment, they found solace in each other's company.

An elf appeared with a soft pop in front of Headmaster Dumbledore. "Headmaster, Director Bones wishes to come through the Floo," the elf announced, bowing low.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't expecting a visit or a message. Very well, please allow her to come through."

Just as the elf vanished, the voice runes at the table activated, projecting Hagrid's familiar voice. "Headmaster, we've got visitors. Someone here called the Mediator, with her bodyguard from the Eternal Imperial Church. They're asking to speak with you and Harry."

Dumbledore's expression turned thoughtful as he glanced at Sebastion, who shrugged his shoulders, his demeanor calm yet curious.

Hagrid's voice continued through the rune. "And, Headmaster, Captain Stavros is here from the ICW. Says he needs to speak with Colonel Kostas and the Supreme Mugwump."

Dumbledore sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching with wry amusement. "Well, it seems we're quite popular this morning. Hagrid, please escort our visitors to the Great Hall and treat them courteously."

He then returned to the elf, who had reappeared in a blink. "Please also inform Director Bones to join us in the Great Hall. It seems we're hosting quite the delegation."

As the elf nodded and vanished again, Dumbledore glanced at Sebastion. "This day grows more interesting by the moment."

Sebastion smirked, sipping his tea. "Indeed. I do hope they bring answers, not just more questions."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "With this lot, I suspect it will mix both." With a final glance at the room, he adjusted his robes and prepared to welcome their guests.

Director Bones and Moody arrived at the Great Hall with purposeful strides. "Greetings, Headmaster," Amelia said with a sharp nod. "I heard you have some interesting guests from across the land who seem to have forgotten the proper protocol for entering the country. I thought I'd see their intentions—whether they concern Hogwarts or you specifically." Her gaze shifted to Sebastion. "I wasn't aware you were here, Supreme Mugwump Delacour."

Sebastion offered a polite smile. "I'm not here in any official capacity, Director. I'm merely visiting an old friend."

Amelia's sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering momentarily on Harry Potter-Black. She opened her mouth to speak further, but the creak of the great doors cut off her words.

They swung open to reveal a stunning figure—the Mediator. Her regal purple cloak billowed behind her as if caught in a phantom breeze, and her silvery hair shimmered like liquid moonlight. Her piercing gaze swept across the hall as she entered with an unshakable confidence. Behind her, her guard followed in perfect V-formation, their synchronized steps echoing softly on the stone floor. Their gleaming armor caught the light, enhancing their intimidating presence.

All eyes in the Great Hall turned to the dramatic entrance, the room falling into an uneasy silence.

The Mediator stopped abruptly, her ethereal aura shifting as her eyes widened. A sudden surge of energy radiated from her, and with a shriek of recognition, a psyker sword materialized in her hand, glowing with raw power. "An Altara Warrior!" she cried, her voice sharp and commanding.

In an instant, 10 moved like a blur. Her sword was in her hand, the blade igniting in green flames as she yelled out Atlantean. The room tensed as her stance shifted protectively in front of her lord. The Mediator's guards raised their wand bolters, poised for battle.

At the Slytherin table, Harry was sitting and laughing with his friends one moment; the next, he vanished, appearing beside 10 with both wands drawn. A shimmering protective bubble formed instantly around his friends. The room erupted into a cacophony of movement as people scrambled back, unsure of what would unfold.

Dumbledore stood abruptly, his voice amplified by powerful magic. "ENOUGH!" he boomed, his tone resonating through every corner of the Great Hall. "THERE SHALL BE NO BLOODSHED IN MY GREAT HALL! YOU ARE VISITORS, AND YOU WILL ABIDE BY OUR LAWS."

The Mediator's sharp gaze remained fixed on 10, and her posture was rigid and tense. She raised her free hand slowly, signaling her guards to lower their weapons. The tension in the air seemed to ease, though her sword remained in hand.

Turning toward the Headmaster, the Mediator inclined her head slightly in apology. "I must offer my sincerest apologies for my actions, Headmaster. However, I would never have thought to see an Altara Warrior standing here, far from the forces of the Splugorth Lords."

10's eyes remained on the Mediator, her sword still ignited with green flames, unwavering in her readiness. "I serve no Splugorth Lord," she hissed, her voice steady but defiant. "I stand as the sworn protector of my Lord."

Harry stepped slightly forward, his voice calm but firm. "10 is under my protection, Mediator. She no longer serves the Splugorth Lords or their vile empire."

The Mediator's head tilted slightly to the right, though her expression remained wary.

"A freed Altara Warrior has never happened," she said, her voice quieter but still carrying a weight of authority. "I meant no offense, but such a sight often signals great danger."

The room remained silent, the tension palpable, as the Mediator finally allowed her psyker sword to vanish. She turned fully toward Dumbledore. "I assure you, Headmaster, this will not happen again."

Dumbledore nodded, though his eyes remained sharp. "Let us ensure that it does not."

Harry reached out and placed a calming hand on 10's shoulder. Her sword was sheathed with a subtle nod from him, though she maintained her position slightly in front of her lord, her posture unyielding.

The Mediator, observing this interaction, tilted her head thoughtfully. "I hope one day I might hear the story of how an Altara Warrior stands free," she said, her tone measured. "But for now, this brings me to why I've traveled to your land without the proper protocols."

She glanced at Director Bones, her expression serious. "Time was of the essence."

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling despite the tension. "Very well, Mediator. Let us adjourn to my office, where we can discuss this matter. It seems an old saying comes to mind: 'It's a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.' I had not anticipated visitors from across the lands, let alone ones bearing such urgency."

His gaze turned toward Harry. "Harry, would you join us?"

Harry rose smoothly from his seat, and without hesitation, 10 followed a step behind him, her hand hovering near her blade. He walked with calm purpose, not breaking stride.

Daphne watched them leave and smiled. "It seems 10 takes her duty quite seriously."

Fleur chuckled lightly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "I certainly wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of her sword."

Draco leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "It's barely eight in the morning, and we've already had ambassadors, Ministry officials, and drama in the Great Hall. Can't we at least finish breakfast first?"

Meanwhile, Luna, oblivious to the world, reached for her second bowl of pudding, a mischievous smile on her face. Humming contentedly, she savored her treat, safe in the knowledge her brother was too preoccupied to stop her indulgence.

Everyone took their seats as the Mediator composed herself at the head of the room. "I do not have all the information yet," she began, her voice steady but laced with urgency. The door opened, and Colonel Kostas entered, followed by Supreme Mugwump Sebastion.

"Apologies for the delay," Sebastion said, settling into his chair. "Captain Stavros just informed me of matters concerning the Mediator's wishes to discuss."

The Mediator nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on 10, who stood silently behind Lord Potter-Black's chair. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword, her presence radiating readiness. The Mediator's silver eyes flicked briefly to Harry before returning to the group. "It seems beings from another dimension attacked a Norwegian village," she stated, the words hanging heavy in the air. "They are known as the Splugorth Empire."

Murmurs rippled around the table as the Mediator continued. "The Splugorth Empire is not an empire in the conventional sense. They do not conquer land or seek political dominion. Instead, they raid realms, abducting individuals to fuel their slave-driven economy. Their strength lies in their mastery of dimensional travel and their enslaved armies."

Her eyes settled once more on 10, who stood unwavering, her expression unreadable. "The Altara Warrior Women, like her," the Mediator said, gesturing toward 10, "are engineered to be the personal bodyguards and enforcers of the Splugorth Lords. They are trained from creation to be utterly loyal."

10 gave a single, sharp nod, her gaze steady, though her fingers flexed briefly on her sword hilt.

The Mediator's tone grew darker. "I do not know why the Splugorth targeted that particular village nor how they managed to pierce the Shield of Merlin. This is a deeply troubling development, one we must investigate thoroughly."

Sebastion stood, his expression grave as he addressed the room. "From the reports I've received, the village suffered minimal loss of life. However, the small police force stationed there was quickly overrun. A being—described as immensely powerful—could knock down the wards surrounding the village with alarming ease. Lizard-like creatures slaughtered the defending force and pursued a man and a young girl into the forest."

He paused, his sharp eyes moving to Harry. "You, Lord Potter-Black, were spotted arriving at the scene. Witness accounts indicate you destroyed the lizard creatures and the alien responsible for breaching the wards. We assume you also dealt with the other threat—described as a Splugorth lord—and its bodyguards." His gaze lingered briefly on 10, who stood impassively behind Harry, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword.

The Mediator's violet and silver eyes locked onto Harry. "A single person, even one as gifted as you, being able to kill a Splugorth lord is unheard of," she said, her voice measured but tinged with disbelief.

Harry smiled, his demeanor calm but firm. "I didn't fight him directly. I destroyed his barge with lightning. The resulting explosion eliminated the Splugorth lord and his forces. I ensured they had nothing left to pose a future threat."

10, standing silently but ever watchful, allowed herself a small smile. "Which means," she said, her voice steady but filled with respect, "he defeated the Splugorth lord. No one has ever escaped their grip so completely, let alone destroyed one."

Sebastion's sharp gaze settled on Harry. "Why were these beings chasing Mr. Lovegood and his daughter? What could they possibly want with them?"

Harry shrugged slightly, his expression serious. "I don't know why, but Luna told me they were after her power."

"Her power?" the Mediator asked, her violet and silver eyes narrowing in intrigue.

Dumbledore, seated beside Sebastion, spoke calmly. "Luna is a gifted Seer. Her abilities are rare and potent enough to have caught the attention of such beings."

The Mediator leaned back in her chair. Her fingers steepled as she considered this. "For a Splugorth lord to notice, the girl's power must be extraordinary. They do not expend resources lightly."

Before anyone else could speak, 10 stepped forward, her voice cutting through the room with precision. "Lord Vyrath'zul explicitly ordered that the girl was not to be harmed. He said anyone who injured her would pay the ultimate price."

The Mediator raised an eyebrow, surprised by 10's sudden contribution. "That implies her value to him was immense."

The Mediator regarded 10 with a measured look before returning to the group. "We should be safe for now. The Splugorth lords rarely work together, and they actively conceal their activities from one another, each seeking power at the expense of the others. Lord Vyrath'zul's defeat will leave a power vacuum in his holdings. The remaining lords will focus on seizing his assets rather than investigating his downfall."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Indeed, but vigilance is key."

Chapter 327 "The Hound and The Hunter"

The figure moved through Paris's narrow, dimly lit backstreets, her silhouette blending seamlessly into the shadows. The faint glow of distant streetlamps barely reached these forgotten alleys, where the cobblestones were slick from an earlier rain. She walked purposefully, her boots clicking softly against the uneven ground, her dark cloak trailing behind her like a midnight whisper.

She paused at the mouth of a narrow lane, her dark eyes scanning her surroundings precisely. A cat darted across her path, and the distant hum of a car engine echoed faintly, but nothing else stirred. Satisfied, she crossed the street with the grace of a predator, her movements fluid and deliberate. Ahead loomed an old bar, its faded wooden sign creaking softly in the night breeze. A warm amber light spilled faintly from its grimy windows, starkly contrasting the cold night.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she stepped inside. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of stale ale and pipe smoke, the murmurs of low conversations filling the room like a subdued symphony. No one looked up to see who had entered; the patrons were hunched over their drinks, lost in their worlds. This was a place where anonymity thrived, and questions were unwelcome.

Her gaze swept the room quickly, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. She spotted him in the corner, a solitary figure slumped over his drink, his long, unkempt hair obscuring his face. The dim light caught the glint of his eyes as he lifted his mug, taking a slow sip. Without hesitation, she crossed the room, her boots making muted thuds against the wooden floorboards.

Reaching his table, she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, the edges of her cloak pooling around her feet. With a subtle flick of her fingers, a shimmering bubble of silence enveloped the table, cutting them off from the rest of the bar. The dull murmur of voices and clinking glasses faded to nothing, leaving them in an isolated, quiet sphere.

The man smiled, his lips curling around the rim of his mug as he set it down. "So," he drawled, his voice rough and laced with amusement, "the Hunter was able to track the Hound."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond immediately, instead letting the weight of the silence press down on him. Finally, she spoke her voice as sharp and cold as a blade. "You didn't make it easy. But we both know you wanted to be found."

The man leaned back in his chair, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "you are correct," he murmured, his voice low.

"Why did you send for me?" she asked, her voice calm and steady as her dark eyes locked onto his.

The Hound looked up from his drink, his disheveled hair parting enough to reveal sharp, intelligent eyes shadowed by exhaustion. "Because something is wrong in Paris," he replied, his tone low and weighted. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, the light catching the faint scars etched into his hands and knuckles. "The Pound received whispers about a group of heretics moving through the city, and I was dispatched to investigate."

Her eyebrows arched. "You alone? Not a pack?"

He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips fading. "No. Just me. They sent a single Hound."

"You're either that good, or they underestimated the danger," she replied, her voice tinged with skepticism.

The Hound gave a wry chuckle but didn't comment. Instead, he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "I tracked them, shadowed them for two nights. They were cautious but not cautious enough. I was preparing to call in the local inquisitor squad to handle the—standard procedure. But then they did something unexpected."

Her expression sharpened. "What?"

"They went into the catacombs," he said, his voice carrying a note of unease. "At first, it seemed normal enough. I know the catacombs, every winding passage, and every supposed dead end. But they led me to a part I'd never seen used. A dead-end corridor, one that shouldn't have gone anywhere. Yet, when they reached it, one of them touched the wall—like they knew exactly where—and made some gesture."

Her gaze bore into him. "And?"

"The wall moved," he said, his words hanging in the air. "A hidden door opened, leading to a small chamber. They entered, and I followed from a distance. Inside, they began digging through a massive pile of bones. The air in that room…" He paused as though searching for the right words. "It wasn't just stale or heavy. It felt alive like something was watching."

She frowned, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the table. "What did they find?"

"A skull," he said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "Not a human one. It was…demonic. Twisted, elongated, with golden runes etched into every surface. They treated it like a relic, placing it carefully into a reinforced chest lined with silver."

Her blood ran cold at his description.

"They left the chamber as swiftly as they'd entered," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I trailed them to the surface, but I didn't act. Not yet. If they were bold enough to retrieve that thing, there's more to this than a simple heretic cell."

She exhaled, her mind racing. "Do you have any idea what those runes mean?"

The Hound shook his head. "That's why I sent for you. If we don't act quickly, whatever they're planning will reach its final stage—and I suspect we won't like what happens when it does."

The Hound's sharp gaze settled on the woman sitting across from him, her presence as commanding as her reputation. She was known only as Raven, a name whispered among hunters and inquisitors alike with equal parts respect and wariness. Her athletic frame was honed to perfection, a blend of agility and strength that spoke of countless battles. Her dark hair was tied back, a few strands framing her sharp, angular face. Her piercing, obsidian eyes seemed to dissect him, weighing every word he spoke.

At her left hip rested the hilt of a sword, its polished grip and intricate crossguard gleaming faintly under the dim light. No visible blade was attached, adding an air of mystery to her armament. On her right hip hung a long pistol, the kind designed to punch through more than just flesh—a weapon of precision and lethality.

She leaned slightly forward, her fingers brushing the table's edge as she spoke. Her movements were deliberately controlled, as though every gesture was part of a calculated plan. Despite her composed demeanor, there was a crackling energy about her, a quiet intensity that made it clear she was as deadly as any blade or bullet she wielded.

"Where are they?" Raven's voice was calm, her dark eyes locked onto the Hound's.

The Hound leaned back slightly, his long fingers drumming on the table. "I have remotes watching them. I didn't want to risk giving away my position. They're holed up in the ruins of an old church. Used to belong to a group of Cathars. Interestingly, there are ruins beneath the main structure—something I hadn't known until now."

He slid a small metal device across the table. Raven picked it up, and as her fingers brushed its surface, a three-dimensional map projected into the air. It highlighted the church and the labyrinth of ruins below. Her eyes flicked over the layout, committing it to memory before snapping the device shut.

She looked up, her expression unreadable. "I think it's time for me to go and do my job."

The Hound studied her momentarily, a flicker of concern passing over his features. "I sent word back to the Pound," he continued. "They've already sent orders. Fenrir is moving. He'll handle the surface assault."

"Good," Raven said, standing with the grace of a predator. "Tell him to purge them all. I'll handle the infiltration below."

"It'll be done," the Hound assured her.

Raven adjusted the hiltless sword at her side, nodded once, and strode toward the door. The room seemed to quiet even further as she passed, her presence like a shadow slipping back into the night. The Hound watched her leave, took another long drink of his ale, and retrieved a small device from his pocket. His fingers moved swiftly, tapping a message to Fenrir: "Engage. Raven is heading below. Leave nothing alive."

The device beeped in confirmation. The hunt was on.

Chapter 328 "The Battle at Cathar Ruins"

Raven screamed across the darkened streets of Paris, her motorcycle a blur of black and chrome, its engine roaring like an unleashed beast. The night swallowed her, streetlights casting fleeting reflections on her sleek helmet and the polished steel of the hiltless sword strapped to her back. She leaned into a sharp turn, the bike growling as she veered south, heading toward her target with unwavering focus. The wind whipped at her dark hair as her piercing eyes scanned the road ahead, every fiber of her attuned to the mission.

High above, Fenrir the Wolf stood on the open ramp of a Thunderhawk, the vessel screeching through the cold night air like a steel predator. The door gunners manned their stations, but their eyes occasionally flicked toward the towering figure in the bay. Fenrir, a hulking giant standing easily seven feet tall, loomed like a statue of war. His full armor gleamed faintly under the dull light of the Thunderhawk's interior, scratched and dented from countless battles. His battle-ax rested lazily in his massive hand, its blade engraved with runes that seemed to pulse faintly with latent power.

At his side was a bolter pistol, a massive weapon that resembled a carbine to an ordinary human. His long black hair flowed freely, cascading down to the middle of his back, partially obscuring the crisscrossing scars etched into his battle-hardened face. Fenrir's icy blue eyes remained fixed on the floor, his focus unshaken, though the faint hum of the Thunderhawk's engines filled the bay.

The crew remained at their stations, some relaxing while others methodically checked their weapons. The tension was palpable; they were still hours away from the target, yet each could feel the storm Fenrir would bring. He shifted slightly, his armor groaning under the weight of his movements, but he remained silent, exuding an aura of barely contained ferocity.

Raven and Fenrir were on converging paths, one tearing through the streets like a shadow of vengeance, the other descending from the heavens like the wrath of a god. Two forces bound by duty, their targets oblivious to the reckoning closing in.

Raven parked her bike in the shadow of a massive oak tree, its branches casting long, claw-like shadows under the moon's faint glow. The engine's roar faded into the fantastic night, replaced by the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze. She dismounted swiftly, her movements silent and purposeful, and placed her hand on a small rune etched into the bike's frame. With a faint glow, the bike shimmered, then vanished from sight—cloaked by her enchantments.

Reaching for the runes engraved on her armored bracers, she activated them with a touch. Her form shimmered briefly, and then her body blended seamlessly into the surroundings. The runes wove an invisibility veil around her, cloaking her from sight and muffling her movements. Even the enchantments seemed to absorb the soft crunch of her boots on the forest floor.

Raven moved like a shadow through the dense forest, her eyes scanning the terrain with precision honed from years of training. Each step was calculated, avoiding dry leaves and snapping branches. She paused occasionally, crouching low to observe her surroundings, her enhanced hearing picking up the faint sounds of wildlife—and the distant, rhythmic pulse of machinery. The ruins were close.

As she approached the ancient church, she saw its skeletal remains rise like a ghost against the backdrop of the moonlit sky. Scarred by centuries of decay, Stone walls crumbled in places, revealing darkened corridors leading into the earth. She slipped closer, her senses sharp for any sign of movement.

Two figures stood at the edge of the ruins, their silhouettes barely visible against the crumbling masonry. Guards. They spoke in hushed tones, their attention focused inward, unaware of the predator stalking them. Raven unsheathed her long pistol, its barrel gleaming faintly, and aimed precisely. The soft thud of two silenced shots ended their murmurs, and their bodies slumped silently to the ground.

She dragged the bodies into the underbrush and secured the entrance before stepping cautiously into the corridor. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and decay. Her boots made no sound as she descended the narrow stone steps, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint sound of her breathing and the distant murmur of voices echoing through the passageways.

At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor widened into a sprawling network of tunnels. Ancient carvings lined the walls, their meanings lost to time, though Raven paused briefly to trace the edge of a rune she vaguely recognized as protective magic. She crouched, studying the ground. Footprints. A group had passed through recently, heading deeper into the labyrinth.

With a deep breath, she continued forward, her body a fluid extension of the shadows. The faint glow of her visor highlighted her path, marking traps and hidden runes. Her grip tightened on her pistol as she approached a dimly lit chamber ahead. She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, peering around the corner. Figures moved within—unaware that death had just entered their sanctum.

Raven slipped silently down the shadowed corridor, her senses honed and her steps impossibly quiet. Pressing against the cold stone wall, she waited for the guard ahead to pass. With the fluid precision of a predator, she moved low, springing forward in a blur. Her blade found its mark, severing his spinal cord in a single, practiced motion, her other hand clamping firmly over his mouth to muffle any sound. As his body went limp, she dragged him into a darkened corner. Whispering a command, she placed a glowing rune on his chest, and his form slowly faded, concealed beneath its enchantment.

The Thunderhawk roared through the night sky, its engines burning bright as the sides slid open, exposing the gunners to the cold air. They quickly took their positions, scanning for threats with disciplined precision. The crew chief shouted over the deafening engines, "Two minutes to drop zone!" Fenrir stood, cracking his neck with a deliberate twist before rolling his shoulders to loosen his massive frame. He hefted his battle axe, its edge glowing faintly with runic power, and strode toward the craft's rear.

The ramp lowered as the Thunderhawk screamed over the ruined church, revealing the crumbling landscape below. Fenrir barely paused, launching himself from the Thunderhawk with the force of a missile, descending like a vengeful god. His armor glinted in the moonlight as he plummeted, landing and shaking the ground beneath him like thunderclaps.

The guards stationed on the crumbling walls heard the strange noise of the craft and glanced upward in confusion. Before they could act, the gunners aboard the Thunderhawk opened fire, bolter rounds tearing through the air and shredding the two guards where they stood. Their bodies crumpled, falling from the wall in lifeless heaps.

The remaining guards turned, startled by the sudden noise and the sight of their fallen comrades. Fenrir was already on the ground, his towering form illuminated by the faint glow of his runic armor. He charged with a roar that echoed through the night, his axe cleaving toward the following targets, who barely had time to scream. The Wolf had arrived.

Fenrir sprinted across the open ground, his massive bolter pistol roaring. Confusion etched on their faces, two guards turned to face him, but they could not react. The weapon barked twice, and explosive rounds tore through their chests, leaving gaping, smoking wounds as their lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground.

Ahead, a group of heretics emerged from the ruins, their hoods obscuring their features but their intent clear. They drew their blades and charged at Fenrir, their shouts echoing through the night. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light, but their numbers meant nothing to the hulking warrior.

Fenrir stopped, planting his feet as he unleashed a feral howl reverberating through the battlefield. The sheer force of the soundwave knocked three of the charging heretics off their feet, sending them sprawling onto the ground. The remaining attackers hesitated, their steps faltering as Fenrir raised his massive battle axe, the runes along its edge glowing ominously.

With a roar, he surged forward, swinging the axe in a wide arc. The blade cleaved through one heretic with ease, splitting his torso in two. The upward momentum carried the weapon into a second enemy, the edge biting deep into his head and shearing away half of his skull. Blood sprayed in all directions, painting the ground and walls crimson as Fenrir pressed forward without hesitation, the embodiment of a wolf unleashed in the hunt.

The remaining heretics faltered, their bravado wavering as they witnessed the devastation wrought by the single warrior. Fenrir's glowing eyes locked onto them, promising only death, as he prepared for the next clash.

Fenrir's sharp eyes caught the movement of a wizard raising his wand. The armored giant shifted his stance as the enemy unleashed a barrage of blasting spells. The magical bolts screamed through the air, crackling with destructive energy. Fenrir leaped with supernatural agility, his massive form defying gravity as he soared over the incoming blasts. The spells struck the ground where he had stood moments ago, detonating with concussive force and showering debris into the air.

Landing with a heavy thud, Fenrir raised his bolter pistol, the runes on its barrel flaring briefly as it switched to burst mode. He fired a rapid series of shots, the weapon's roar cutting through the chaos. The wizard quickly conjured a shimmering magical shield, its surface glowing with defensive enchantments. The first two bolts impacted the shield, causing it to ripple like a pond disturbed by stones. The third round, however, slammed through the weakened barrier with devastating force. It struck the wizard squarely in the forehead, his head erupting in a mist of blood and bone fragments. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground, the wand slipping from limp fingers.

Before Fenrir could advance, a guttural snarl drew his attention. Another heretic emerged from the shadows, gripping leashes attached to three massive hounds. The beasts were monstrous, their sleek black fur shimmering like oil in the dim light. Their glowing red eyes radiated malice, and saliva dripped from their razor-sharp teeth. The heretic released the leashes with a barked command, and the hounds surged forward, their deep, resonant howls echoing like death's own horn.

Fenrir squared his shoulders and grinned, a predator meeting worthy prey. The first Hound lunged at him, its jaws snapping with feral intent. Fenrir sidestepped with practiced precision and brought his bolter pistol to bear. A single shot rang out, the explosive round tearing through the beast's ribcage. The Hound collapsed mid-leap, its body skidding to a halt, lifeless.

The remaining two hounds circled him, their snarls filling the air. One leaped for his throat, but Fenrir pivoted, swinging his battle axe in a deadly arc. The blade cleaved through the creature's midsection, spilling black ichor across the ground. The final Hound charged, its bulk colliding with Fenrir's armored frame. The impact forced him back a step, but his unyielding strength kept him upright.

Grabbing the beast by its throat with his free hand, Fenrir hoisted it into the air, its powerful limbs flailing as it tried to claw at him. Fenrir slammed the Hound to the ground with a guttural growl, his axe descending in a brutal finishing strike. The blade carved through its neck, silencing its howls forever.

As the last of the beasts fell, Fenrir straightened, blood and ichor staining his armor. He turned his gaze to the heretic who had unleashed the hounds, the predator's grin returning to his scarred face. "Your turn," he growled, advancing like death incarnate.

The heretic who had unleashed the hounds turned to flee, panic evident in his wild movements. Fenrir's deep voice boomed across the battlefield, laced with contempt. "Coward!" he roared, raising his bolter pistol. He fired a single shot, the explosive round ripping through the heretic's back, sending him sprawling lifeless to the ground.

Not breaking stride, Fenrir charged toward the heavy double doors leading into the ruins. With a primal yell, he drove his boot into the door with all his might. The massive wooden slab, reinforced with iron, groaned under the impact and flew inward with a deafening crash. The force sent the door slamming into three heretics rushing toward the entryway. Their screams were cut short as the heavy barrier crushed them against the stone walls.

Fenrir stepped into the dimly lit chamber, his presence a storm of fury and menace. Dozens of heretics turned to face him, weapons drawn and eyes wide with fear. Fenrir howled, reverberating through the hall like thunder, and charged into the fray.

His battle axe swung in a deadly arc, its razor-sharp edge cleaving through two heretics in a single blow. Blood sprayed across the chamber as he spun, his axe cutting through flesh and bone with ruthless efficiency. A group of heretics tried to surround him, but Fenrir surged forward, his momentum unstoppable. He swung his weapon in a wide circle, the massive blade carving through torsos and limbs, leaving a trail of carnage in its wake.

The surviving heretics faltered, their courage dissolving as Fenrir roared, his scarred face twisted in unrelenting rage. He stood among the fallen, his armor splattered with blood, an unstoppable force tearing through their ranks like a force of nature.

Raven pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her breaths slow and measured. The dim corridor echoed with the heavy footfalls of a group of heretics racing past her, their hurried shouts fading as they sprinted toward the chaos erupting behind her. Fenrir would deal with them; she did not doubt his ability to tear through their ranks like a storm.

As she crept forward, the air grew colder, carrying the oppressive pulse of unholy magic. It pressed against her skin, crawling like a thousand invisible tendrils. Her sharp eyes caught the faint flicker of light from a chamber just ahead. Silently, she edged closer, her armored boots making no sound on the stone floor. Peering into the vast room, the sight before her sent a chill down her spine.

The sight before her was unnerving, even for someone as seasoned as Raven. A large, dimly lit room stretched before her, its stone walls inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed with an unnatural red light. In the center of the room was a circle marked with ancient sigils, each radiating an eerie, unholy power. Ten women stood around the circle, their bodies bare, their pale skin slick with sweat that glistened in the flickering light of the torches mounted along the walls.

The women moved in a frenzied dance, their motions sharp and erratic yet disturbingly synchronized. Their feet struck the floor in a rhythm mirrored the pounding of five drummers seated just beyond the circle. The drummers struck their instruments with relentless force, their eyes glazed over as though entranced.

At the center of the circle stood a towering figure, a human, who wore a headdress resembling an elongated beast with sharp, predatory features. The man chanted in a guttural, ancient tongue, his voice rising and falling with the cadence of the drums. The power in the room was built with each word, a palpable force that made Raven's skin prickle. She could feel the magic coiling, ready to explode.

Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. She took a deep breath, narrowing her eyes. This ends now.

As Raven stepped into the chamber, a sudden, ear-piercing scream ripped through the air, and the ritual reached its dark crescendo. Her instincts screamed at her to act, but before she could move, the dancers' bodies convulsed violently. One by one, they exploded in bursts of blood and viscera, their remains splattering the stone walls and floors. From their ruptured forms emerged grotesque beings that sent a chill down Raven's spine.

Their skin was deep, blood-red, gleaming unnaturally as though slicked with oil. Their eyes were vast pools of black, empty yet terrifyingly alive with malice. Twisted horns jutted from their heads, spiraling upward in jagged, asymmetrical patterns. Razer-sharp claws extended from their long, sinewy fingers, each glinting like freshly honed steel under the dim light. Their bodies were humanoid yet distorted, unnervingly slender yet packed with an unnatural strength. They moved with unsettling speed, their voices a cacophony of guttural cries in a language Raven couldn't understand but felt deep in her bones.

Before she could act, the drummers' bodies contorted and burst apart in a similar gruesome display. From their remains emerged massive figures, standing well over six feet tall, their hulking frames radiating a palpable sense of dread. These demons were heavily muscled, their torsos rippling with unnatural power. Their horns were larger and thicker, curling menacingly like a ram's but tipped with razor-sharp edges. Their skin was a darker crimson, marred by glowing runes etched deep into their flesh, pulsating with an ominous light.

Their faces were the stuff of nightmares—elongated snouts filled with jagged teeth, nostrils that flared like vents from hell itself, and eyes that burned with an unholy fire. Black ichor dripped from their claws, sizzling wherever it touched the ground. They roared in unison, making the walls tremble, as the largest among them turned its blazing gaze toward Raven. She gripped her weapon tightly, her heart pounding as the room descended into chaos. This was no mere summoning—this was a war against hell incarnate.

Raven felt the primal fear rising, the insidious urge to flee from the monstrosities before her, but she crushed it beneath her will. Instead, she let out a fierce battle cry, "For the Church!" Her voice echoed in the chamber as her hand whipped forward, launching three Kraken grenades. The grenades detonated in rapid succession, their explosions ripping through the bodies of four of the smaller demons. Their guttural cries were silenced in an instant as their twisted forms were obliterated, blood and ichor painting the stone walls.

Without hesitation, Raven drew her long pistol, its barrel glowing faintly with runic energy. She aimed at one of the hulking demons charging toward her. Her first shot rang out, a concussive boom, as the bullet struck true, tearing through the demon's forehead. Its head exploded in a shower of dark ichor and fragments of its cursed horn, the massive body collapsing like a felled tree.

With the momentum of her charge, Raven grabbed the hilt at her side. A blade of cosmic energy erupted from it, humming with raw, celestial power. The blade shimmered with blues and purples, stars seeming to dance along its length. Raven spun, her movements fluid and deadly. Her sword arced through one demon's abdomen, the cosmic energy slicing through its flesh and bone as if they were paper. Its entrails spilled out in a steaming heap as it stumbled back, howling in pain before collapsing.

Her pistol barked twice more in quick succession. Two more demons fell as her enchanted rounds pierced their skulls, sending them screaming back to the abyss. Raven's battle trance was interrupted by the summoner, who slammed his staff into the ground. A shockwave of raw magic surged through the chamber, striking Raven like a battering ram. She was hurled twenty feet back, the impact slamming her into the cold stone floor. The breath was knocked from her lungs as pain lanced through her spine.

The remaining demons seized the moment, charging at the prone warrior with claws extended and roaring in unison. Raven gritted her teeth, rage fueling her as she forced her body to respond. With a roar of defiance, she rolled backward and sprang to her feet in one fluid motion. Her pistol fired again. Each shot is precise and deadly. The first round struck a demon between its fiery eyes, the second punched through another's throat, and the third splattered the chest of a third, leaving it lifeless.

Only one of the dancing demons remained. It lunged at her faster than the others, its claws raking across her chest. Raven gasped as the talons tore through her armor, slicing into the flesh beneath. Blood trickled down her torso, but she refused to falter. She leaped back, putting distance between herself and the demon. Her grip on her cosmic blade tightened, and the stars along its length seemed to pulse brighter as she prepared for her next move.

Her resolve was unshaken—this battle was far from over.

Raven braced herself for the attack, her blade glowing faintly as she prepared to face the remaining demons. Suddenly, a thunderous howl filled the chamber, echoing off the walls and freezing the demons in their tracks. A massive shadow passed over her, and she glanced up to see Fenrir the Wolf, now in his Lycan form, descending from the darkness above.

Standing over nine feet tall, his hulking figure landed with a crash, shaking the ground beneath them. His battle-ax, already in motion, cleaved through two of the demons before they could react. Their bodies split apart, spilling their entrails onto the cold stone floor. Fenrir spun with ferocious speed, his ax arcing in a deadly circle. The third demon's head flew from its shoulders, landing with a wet thud as black ichor sprayed the walls.

Desperate and enraged, the final demon charged Fenrir and slammed into his chest. The massive Lycan didn't even flinch. Instead, he laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed with primal dominance. His massive, clawed hand shot out, grabbing the demon by the throat. Lifting it effortlessly, Fenrir's gauntleted fingers tightened, and with a sickening crunch, he crushed the demon's windpipe. The lifeless body dangled for a moment before Fenrir tossed it aside like a broken toy.

Raven, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of Fenrir's assault, shook herself back into focus. Her target wasn't the demons—it was the summoner. She turned, catching sight of him fleeing down a side corridor. With a growl of determination, she sprinted after him. The limping and panicked summoner was nearing a staircase that led out of the chamber.

Raven raised her pistol, the barrel glowing faintly with runic energy, and fired. The shot cracked through the air, striking the summoner in his right leg. He screamed and collapsed, clutching at his shattered limb. Before he could crawl further, Raven closed the distance, her movements swift and relentless. She flipped him onto his back with a brutal kick and drew her stake pistol.

The summoner's cries grew frantic as she aimed. With precise shots, she fired metal stakes into each of his shoulders, pinning him to the stone floor. The summoner thrashed, his screams echoing through the corridor. Raven's mind powers flared to life, her eyes glowing faintly as she forced his limbs into a spread-eagle position. Methodically, she fired a stake into each of his hands and ankles, anchoring him firmly to the ground.

The summoner's screams of pain filled the air, his body trembling as he struggled futilely against his restraints. Raven loomed over him, her expression cold and unyielding. "No one escapes judgment," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of finality.

Raven ignored the shrieks of the pinned summoner as she methodically pulled a small device from her equipment pouch. It gleamed ominously in the dim light. She pressed the device against the summoner's head, its small mechanical claws latching onto his scalp. His protests turned to agonized screams as she tapped the top of the device, activating it. A piercing beam of light emanated from the mechanism, drilling into his mind. Raven's expression remained cold and detached as the device worked, mapping the intricate pathways of his brain and recording every detail. Blood seeped from his eyes, ears, and nose, staining his robes as his body convulsed against the unrelenting grip of the stakes pinning him.

When the light shut off, the device emitted two sharp beeps. Raven detached it from his head and slipped it back into her pouch. "I can't afford to leave any gaps in the records," she muttered, her voice devoid of emotion. She retrieved a clear cylindrical jar with ominous tubing from another compartment on her belt.

The summoner's weakened cries escalated as she secured the jar to the top of his skull. Tapping a small panel on its side, the jar's base began to spin, emitting a low whirring sound. The summoner screamed, his body convulsing violently as the suction increased. With a sickening wet noise, his brain was extracted from his skull and encased within the jar—the container filled with a viscous, preservative liquid, submerging the organ and keeping it intact. Raven held the jar up briefly, inspecting it with clinical precision, before securing it to her belt.

Raven searched the summoner's robes, finding a golden scroll tucked in an inner pocket. She removed it, tucking it safely away, but found nothing else of value. Stepping back, she produced a purifying rune and activated it, dropping it onto the summoner's lifeless chest. White flames—Angel Fire—erupted from the rune, consuming his body entirely in a divine blaze.

"You have been judged and found guilty of heresy against the Eternal Church," she declared coldly as the flames burned away all trace of him. "Your punishment is death." She turned on her heel, eyes scanning the corridor for her next objective, and strode away, leaving only ash behind.

Raven stepped into the ritual chamber, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto Fenrir, who stood in his human form near the altar. His imposing figure was still as a statue, his expression unreadable. Without turning, he spoke in his deep, gravelly voice. "It's done. The only thing that remains…" He motioned toward the grotesque altar at the far end of the room, where the demonic relic—a skull with glowing runes—sat ominously, seeming to watch their every move.

Raven smirked and strode toward the altar, her steps deliberate. "Good. That's what we came for." She paused before the relic, her hand hovering over it, testing for traps or residual magic. Sensing no immediate danger, she grabbed the horns of the skull and lifted it with ease, placing it carefully into the ornate golden chest that waited on the floor.

Fenrir's eyes scanned the chamber as he growled, "This is a place of power. The ley line here can be tapped for rituals and other infernal purposes. It's been hidden from us, off any known map."

Raven didn't pause in her work, securing the chest. "Not my problem. Let the Pound worry about this place."

"It needs to be capped," Fenrir insisted, his voice firm. "We need to ensure no one else can use it."

"That's a discussion for someone higher up," Raven replied, shrugging. She started toward the exit as Fenrir fell in step beside her.

"You fought well," Fenrir rumbled.

Raven chuckled, glancing at him. "Well, I'm not some oversized furry."

Fenrir laughed, a deep, booming sound. "I assure you, I am no furry."

As they exited into the darkness, the roar of the Thunderhawk's rune engines filled the air. The massive ship descended, its side ramps opening. Raven noticed her motorcycle secured to the rear wall and touched a rune on her armor. Healing foam spread over her wounds, sealing and mending them, making her skin flawless again.

Fenrir knelt on one knee, his massive hand gripping the hilt of his axe as he bowed his head. "Allfather Odin, I give thanks for this battle, for the strength to vanquish these infernal foes. Guide my blade, sharpen my mind, and grant me courage for future wars," he said softly, his tone reverent. Raven only smirked as the Thunderhawk lifted them into the night sky.