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Ethan swung his sword in quick succession, but each strike passed harmlessly through her, failing to land a single blow.
"Aard!" Ethan spelled, thrusting his hand forward.
A powerful shockwave erupted from his palm, sending the remaining glass shards scattering into fine dust.
Sensing an opportunity, he feigned an opening.
The woman took the bait instantly, lunging at him with her dagger, aiming for his throat.
Ethan twisted his grip on the sword, bracing the flat of the blade with his free hand. With a brutal snap of motion, he drove the hilt straight into her face.
A sickening crunch echoed through the room. The force shattered her nasal bone and fractured the delicate structure of her cheek.
She reeled back with a choked scream, staggering in agony, her weapon momentarily forgotten.
A seasoned Witcher never wasted an advantage. Without hesitation, Ethan drove his sword forward.
The steel sank deep into her chest, impaling her against the wall with a wet, hollow gasp.
She exhaled sharply, her breath hitching as blood spilled from her lips.
Her life was slipping away, her body pinned to the cold stone like a grotesque portrait of death.
Ethan finally allowed himself a breath. The battle was over.
Or so he thought.
"Ah, Ethan, my dear friend," a smooth, mocking voice drifted from behind him.
"I'm afraid I'll have to step in this time."
Ethan tensed. He hadn't heard anyone approach. Hadn't sensed another presence.
He spun instinctively, but the world slowed—his movements sluggish, like wading through tar. Before he could react, a searing pain tore through his back.
His breath hitched.
He glanced down, heart hammering in disbelief.
A blade had sprouted from his chest, its gleaming tip slick with his own blood.
Not a blade. A horn.
No, not a horn—a dagger.
Behind him stood Gaunter O'Dimm, smiling pleasantly as if they were simply sharing a drink by the fire.
With an almost casual air, O'Dimm twisted the knife deeper, pressing his lips into a mockery of regret.
"A shame, truly. As fellow travelers from another world, I had hoped for a more... civilized discussion."
His voice was honeyed, rich with amusement.
"But alas, we seem to have run out of time."
He shoved the dagger further in.
Strangely, no blood poured from the wound.
The pain was there—searing, all-consuming—but something unnatural was at work.
O'Dimm's eyes gleamed as he reached into Ethan's coat, fingers searching until they curled around a small, cold object.
The Resurrection Stone.
"This… this is what I've been looking for," he murmured, voice reverent.
"The power of death itself."
Greed flickered in his gaze as he lifted the stone, but the moment his fingers brushed against it, a black, venomous mist erupted from within.
The darkness coiled like a living thing, striking at O'Dimm like a serpent.
He yanked his hand back instantly, expression twisting in disbelief.
"What…?"
His voice faltered, for the first time tinged with something dangerously close to uncertainty.
Outside, the sky darkened as storm clouds gathered unnaturally fast.
From the shadows of the room, figures began to emerge.
Silhouettes twisted and stretched, creeping toward him with silent, ominous purpose.
The lounge's candles guttered out.
Even the fireplace, once a warm, crackling comfort, flickered and shrank to dying embers.
The air grew frigid.
And death itself seemed to watch.
The last ember in the fireplace flickered once—then died.
Silence fell over the room.
The cup of black tea on the table, left untouched by a student, froze solid in an instant, its surface cracking with a brittle snap.
Gaunter O'Dimm's gaze flickered with something rare—fear.
The shadows slithered toward him, creeping like living things, stretching hungrily across the floor.
He reached for the Resurrection Stone again—then hesitated.
A flicker of something crossed his face, a realization, an unspoken warning. His hand dropped to his side.
His expression twisted as the darkness surged closer.
Without another word, he gripped the impaled woman and vanished, disappearing into nothing.
As the Mirror Master left, the unnatural stillness shattered.
Blood erupted from Ethan's wounds in a crimson flood, gushing from his chest and back as if a dam had broken.
With a lifeless thud, his body crumpled to the floor like a discarded rag doll.
The last thing he heard was a scream—Hermione's scream.
Hermione had been watching.
Peering through the cracked dormitory door, she had seen everything.
She had seen Ethan fight, seen him defeat the strange woman. And for a moment, relief had swelled in her chest.
Then he appeared.
The man who moved like a shadow. The man who smiled as he stabbed Ethan.
The moment the dagger slid into Ethan's chest, Hermione's mind went blank.
Her breath caught in her throat, strangled by sheer terror.
She wanted to move. Wanted to run to him. Wanted to do something.
But her body refused.
Some unnatural force held her still, as if the world itself had frozen along with her.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the paralysis lifted.
O'Dimm was gone.
The spell was broken.
The door burst open with a bang as Hermione sprinted to Ethan's side, her footsteps frantic against the cold stone floor.
She barely registered the horrified gasps of the other students as they emerged from their dormitories.
Her eyes were fixed on Ethan.
Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the floor, seeping into his robes. More spilled from his mouth and nose with every ragged, agonizing breath.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps, the sound eerily like a broken bellows.
Hermione's hands trembled. No, no, no, no…
"Oh my God, Professor Ethan."
Her voice was barely a whisper.
Ethan had always seemed unstoppable. A force of nature. Someone who always had the answers, always knew what to do.
But now… now he was dying.
His life was slipping away, second by second, right in front of her.
A choked sob caught in her throat.
Behind her, Harry and Ron stumbled into the corridor, drawn by the noise.
For a second, they just stood there, frozen, uncomprehending.
Then the reality hit.
Ron's face drained of color, and his knees nearly gave way. His brain refused to accept what he was seeing.
It felt wrong—as if this was some horrible dream he just needed to wake up from.
Desperate, he clawed at his face, scratching, pinching—anything to snap himself out of it.
But nothing changed.
This wasn't a nightmare.
This was real.
A sudden scream shattered the paralysis.
"Go get a professor! And bring the Wiggenweld Potion—now!"
Hermione's voice was raw, panicked, desperate.
Her cry jolted Harry and Ron into action. Without thinking, they turned and bolted, racing to their dormitory in a blind frenzy.
Behind them, other students spilled into the corridor, eyes wide with horror. Whispers and gasps filled the air, but none of it mattered.
Nothing mattered except saving him.
Harry's hands shook as he tore through his trunk, tossing books and clothes aside in a frantic search.
Come on, come on, where is it—
His fingers closed around a small glass vial.
Wiggenweld.
Harry clutched it like a lifeline.
"Got it!" He spun, pushing past Ron and shoving through the stunned crowd.
"MOVE!"
He stumbled to Hermione, shoving the bottle into her hands with a wild urgency.
"Hermione, hurry! You have to—"
He stopped.
Hermione wasn't moving.
She only stared at Ethan, her face a mask of grief, eyes filled with something raw and irreversible.
Harry felt his breath hitch in his throat.
Then he heard it.
Or rather—he didn't.
The awful, ragged sound of Ethan's breathing was gone.
And the silence was deafening.