Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Tarnished Potter.
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Harry adjusted Millicent's weight on his back, eager to leave the musty confines of the Great Archive and get moving. Every moment spent here was another moment his friends might be in danger. Were Sirius and Ron still surrounded by Dementors? Had Professor Lupin transformed back? Was Hermione safe?
"Hold a moment," Gowry called, his reedy voice echoing through the cavernous library. "You can't simply march off to Redmane Castle and hope for the best. What exactly is your plan?"
Harry suppressed a sigh. Plans were Hermione's department, not his. He tended to make things up as he went along.
Roddard stepped forward, holding his Clearnrot Spear with one hand. "The plan is sound enough, scholar. I'll train the boy in proper swordsmanship as we travel. We'll hunt the Rot-spawn and lesser beasts, allowing Harry to absorb their runes and grow stronger. Only when he's proven himself capable will we seek out Commander O'Neil."
Harry frowned at being called 'the boy' but held his tongue.
Gowry stroked his wispy beard. "The concept is sound, yes, but execution matters more than intent. Boy—" he fixed his gaze on Harry, "—what exactly are your abilities? I have some knowledge of what a Cleanrot Knight can accomplish, having observed Cleanrot Knight Soldiers and Guards for decades, but you remain a mystery."
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scholar's scrutiny. Even after everything he'd been through in this strange world, he still felt like he was thirteen years old trying to explain why he'd blown up his aunt like a balloon; well, he was still thirteen. "I'm... good with my sword," he said, patting the Lordsworn Greatsword. "Got it back in Limgrave from some ruins. And I'm good with magic, I suppose."
"Magic?" Gowry leaned forward with interest. "What manner of magic? Carian sorcery? The Golden Order's incantations? Perhaps you have learned Glinstone sorceries, or the ancient Crucible magic?"
"Er..." Harry blinked, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar terms. "None of those, I think. I told you before—I'm not from this world. I'm from somewhere completely different."
The scholar's brow furrowed deeply, creating even more wrinkles in his already ancient face. "Different world? But if that is truly the case, then what form does your magic take?"
Harry glanced at Millicent, who nodded encouragingly, then at Roddard, whose helmet gave away nothing. Taking a deep breath, he extended his right hand and focused on the familiar tingle that had become second nature over the past few days. Lightning crackled along his fingers, then coalesced into a long, brilliant spear of pure electrical energy. The spell felt easier now than it had when he'd first used it.
"I'm good at Dragon Incantations," Harry said, hefting the lightning spear in his grip. The weapon hummed with power. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it toward an empty corner of the archive, where it struck the stone wall and dissipated in a shower of sparks.
Gowry's eyes widened considerably. "Dragon Incantations? Are you a member of the Dragon Cult? Did the ancient wyrms teach you their secrets directly?"
"Dragon Cult?" Harry shook his head, confusion evident in his voice. "No, I don't know anything about that. I don't really know why I can use Dragon Incantations at all, to be honest."
"But that should be impossible," Gowry muttered, rising from his chair with surprising agility for someone of his apparent age. "The Dragon Cult's knowledge was carefully guarded, passed down only to their most devoted followers. One cannot simply manifest such abilities without proper instruction or..." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Have you consumed a dragon heart?"
Harry felt heat rise to his cheeks. "Well, I could do Dragon Magic before—"
"Dragon Incantations," Gowry corrected firmly.
"Right, Dragon Incantations," Harry continued, though privately he thought 'Dragon Magic' sounded perfectly reasonable. "I could do a little bit before, but I wasn't very good at controlling it. Everything felt wild and dangerous, like it might explode at any moment. But a few hours ago, I ate a dragon's heart."
The admission earned him an approving nod from Gowry. "Ah, that explains the improvement in your control. Dragon hearts contain concentrated power—consuming one would indeed strengthen your connection to their ancient magic and grant you greater mastery over their techniques."
Roddard snorted from behind his helmet. "Don't let it go to your head, boy. You're still not strong enough to face O'Neil, even if the Rot has weakened him considerably. The Commander was legendary even before Caelid fell to corruption. That's precisely why we need to take time to hunt lesser prey and gather runes before we even consider challenging him."
"Which brings me to my next point," Gowry said, settling back into his chair with a thoughtful expression. "While this archive doesn't contain extensive knowledge of Dragon Incantations—most of that lore was lost with the fall of the Capital—I do possess a few tomes that might prove useful. If you're truly set on this path, you should remain here a while longer to study and train properly."
Harry's stomach clenched at the suggestion. Every moment he spent in this strange world was another moment his friends might be in danger. What had happened after he'd cast that weird Patronus and collapsed? Had Sirius escaped the Dementors? Were Ron and Hermione safe? Had anyone been hurt?
"Can't we learn whatever spells you have while we're searching for the Commander?" Harry asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "My friends need me. I don't know what happened to them after I ended up here, and every day I wait is another day they might be in trouble."
Gowry's expression softened slightly, but his tone remained firm. "Your friends may indeed need you, young man, but they certainly don't need you as a corpse. Caelid is not forgiving to the unprepared, and Commander O'Neil, even weakened, represents a threat you're not yet equipped to handle."
Millicent squeezed Harry's arm gently. "Harry, I understand your urgency—truly, I do. But perhaps the scholar speaks wisdom. If we're to have any hope of retrieving the needle, we must be as prepared as possible."
Harry looked between his companions, frustration warring with logic in his chest. He thought of Sirius, who'd spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. He thought of Ron, probably trying to do something heroic and getting himself into trouble. He thought of Hermione. How could he abandon them to study dusty books and practice spells when they might be facing who-knew-what dangers?
But then he remembered the sick dragon they'd faced earlier, how even weakened by the Rot it had nearly killed him. If a dying, juvenile dragon could pose such a threat, what chance did they have against a legendary commander?
"What kind of spell?" Harry asked reluctantly.
Gowry's face brightened considerably. "Ah, excellent question! The incantation I have in mind is called Vyke's Dragonbolt. It's significantly more powerful than the basic Lightning Spear you just demonstrated, and far more versatile in combat situations."
"Vyke's Dragonbolt?" Harry repeated, intrigued despite his impatience. "Who was Vyke?"
"Knight Vyke was once considered the closest of any Tarnished to claiming the title of Elden Lord," Gowry explained, his voice taking on the reverent tone of someone recounting ancient history. "He mastered numerous Dragon Incantations and was said to wield lightning with such skill that he could call down bolts from the heavens themselves. Unfortunately, we do not know what happened to him, one day, people just stopped talking about him, some say he gave up on his dream, some say he loved too deeply, but no one knows for sure what happened to him."
Harry's pulse quickened. If this Vyke character had been close to becoming Elden Lord—whatever that meant exactly—then learning his techniques could make a real difference in their upcoming battles. "How long would it take to learn?"
"For someone with your apparent aptitude? Perhaps a day or two of focused study. The incantation is complex, requiring precise control over both the electrical energy and the draconic essence that powers it. But given your demonstrated ability..." Gowry gestured toward the scorch mark where Harry's lightning spear had struck the wall.
Roddard stepped forward, his armor clanking softly. "I think we should stay here a bit longer, I don't want the life of Lady Millicent to be lost because we didn't have patience."
Harry closed his eyes, trying to push down the gnawing worry about his friends. Roddard was right, of course. If he died fighting Commander O'Neil, he'd never make it home to help anyone. And if this Vyke's Dragonbolt was truly more powerful than his current spells, it could be exactly what they needed to succeed.
"Alright," he said finally, opening his eyes and meeting Gowry's gaze. "Two days. But no longer. Every hour I spend here is an hour my friends might be in danger."
Gowry smiled, though there was something sad in his ancient eyes. "Very well. Two days should be sufficient to teach you the basics, though true mastery would take much longer. But first, tell me—what other Dragon Incantations do you currently know? I'll need to understand your foundation before we build upon it."
Harry mentally catalogued his abilities, still amazed at how much his life had changed in just a few days. "I can do the Lightning Spear, obviously. I can transform parts of my body—my arm becomes like a dragon's claw, and I can breathe fire and... other things."
"Other things?" Gowry prompted.
Harry hesitated, remembering the sickly sweet smell of the Scarlet Rot breath he'd used against the werewolves before he even appeared in this strange world. "I can breathe Scarlet Rot mist, but that seems really dangerous."
"Rotten Breath," Gowry said with a sharp intake of air. "That's an extremely advanced incantation, typically known only to the most dedicated students of the Rot itself. How did you—" He shook his head. "Never mind. Your origins clearly don't follow conventional rules. The fact remains that such knowledge, combined with your draconic transformations, suggests you have a remarkably strong connection to the ancient dragon magic."
Millicent shifted against Harry's shoulder, and he could feel the fever burning through her skin even through her tattered clothing. The reminder of her condition strengthened his resolve. Two days might feel like an eternity when his friends could be in danger, but if it meant being strong enough to save Millicent and eventually find a way home, it would be worth it.
"So where do we start?" Harry asked.
The ancient tome felt heavier than it looked when Gowry placed it in Harry's hands. Its leather binding was cracked with age. Holding this tome, it reminded him of the way he felt holding Tom Riddle's diary last year. A part of him still found it difficult to believe he was in this place, fighting against creatures stronger than a Basilisk.
"Vyke's Dragonbolt," Gowry explained, settling back into his floating chair with a satisfied grunt, "is fundamentally different from the Lightning Spear you've been using. Rather than simply manifesting electrical energy and hurling it, you infuse your weapon itself with draconic lightning."
Harry looked down at his Lordsworn Greatsword, trying to imagine it crackling with electricity. "So the sword becomes the lightning bolt?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." Gowry gestured, and several floating books drifted closer, their pages flipping open to reveal detailed diagrams. "Watch carefully—the principle is to channel the lightning through your entire body, then focus it into whatever weapon you're wielding. The result is far more devastating than a simple projectile."
Harry studied the illustrations, which showed a figure wreathed in golden light, electricity dancing along the edges of a massive sword. It looked impressive, but also dangerous. "What happens if I mess it up?"
"Well," Gowry said cheerfully, "the last student who attempted this without proper preparation was found as a charred skeleton still gripping his melted blade. But I'm sure you'll do fine!"
"Bloody brilliant," Harry muttered, but he couldn't deny the spark of excitement building in his chest. If this technique could give them the edge they needed against Commander O'Neil, it would be worth the risk.
Roddard snorted from his position near the wall. "At least when he burns himself to ash, we'll be spared his complaining about being homesick."
"Oi, at least I don't spend my days polishing armor and pretending to be important," Harry shot back, earning what might have been a chuckle from Millicent.
Gowry cleared his throat pointedly. "If you two are quite finished with your charming banter, perhaps we could begin? Harry, place your sword on the table here and extend your hands over it. Don't touch the blade—not yet."
Harry did as instructed, feeling slightly ridiculous standing with his arms outstretched like he was blessing his weapon. The Lordsworn Greatsword lay between his palms.
"Now," Gowry continued, "begin gathering lightning as you normally would, but don't release it. Let it build in your chest, your arms, your very bones. Feel it spreading through every part of you."
Harry closed his eyes and reached for that familiar tingle of electrical energy. It came easier now than it had even a few days ago, crackling along his fingertips and sending warmth through his arms. But instead of forming it into a spear and hurling it away, he held it, letting the power accumulate.
The sensation was intoxicating. Lightning coursed through his veins, making his heart race and his vision sharpen. For a moment, he felt truly connected to the dragon power within him, as if he could transform completely if he chose to.
"Excellent," Gowry said approvingly. "Now, very slowly, allow that energy to flow down into your sword. Don't force it—guide it, like water flowing downhill."
Harry tried to push the lightning toward his weapon, but the moment he did, the energy scattered, leaving him feeling drained and frustrated. "It's not working."
The first hour passed with little progress. Harry would gather the lightning, feel it building to that perfect crescendo, then watch it dissipate the moment he tried to direct it into his sword. His hands began to shake from the repeated attempts, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the archive's cool air.
"Bloody useless," he muttered after his fifteenth failed attempt, slumping against the practice table. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for this."
"Patience," Gowry said mildly, though Harry noticed the scholar had prepared himself a cup of tea and was reading through a floating book—clearly settling in for a long session. "Knight Vyke himself took weeks to master this technique, and he was already accomplished with dragon incantations."
Near the wall, Millicent had pulled several thick tomes toward her with her remaining arm, their covers bearing titles like "The Nature of Scarlet Bloom" and "Observations on the Rot's Progression." She glanced up from her reading occasionally to watch Harry's attempts, offering gentle encouragement when his frustration became too obvious.
The second hour brought marginal improvement. Harry managed to get the lightning partway down his arms before it scattered, leaving his fingertips tingling and his sword completely untouched by electricity.
"This is harder than Transfiguration," Harry complained, remembering McGonagall's impossible standards for turning beetles into buttons. "At least when I messed up in her class, nothing exploded."
The third hour finally brought a breakthrough, though not the one Harry had been hoping for. As he attempted to guide the lightning down his arms, it suddenly surged, crackling wildly around his hands before earthing itself into the stone table with a sharp crack. The impact left his palms stinging and a small crater in the ancient stonework.
"Progress!" Gowry said cheerfully, examining the damage. "You're learning to direct the energy, even if your aim needs work."
"That wasn't direction," Harry protested, flexing his sore fingers. "That was more like... controlled disaster."
"All learning is controlled disaster," the scholar replied sagely. "The trick is making the disasters smaller and more useful over time."
It wasn't until the fourth hour, with Harry's arms aching and his head pounding from concentration, that he finally achieved something resembling success. Millicent had just turned a page in her current tome—something about "Rot-born Consciousness and Its Implications"—when Harry's latest attempt yielded different results.
"You're trying too hard," Millicent observed from her resting place near the wall, her golden eye gleaming with interest as she watched his latest failed attempt. "Lightning isn't meant to be controlled—it wants to be free. Try working with it instead of against it."
Harry shot her a grateful look and tried again, this time imagining the electricity as a wild animal he was attempting to befriend rather than a tool he was trying to wield. The difference was immediate—the lightning flowed more naturally, seeping down his arms and into his hands.
"Better," Gowry nodded. "Now touch the blade."
The moment Harry's palms made contact with the steel, the sword erupted in golden light. Electricity danced along its edges, and the air around it crackled with power.
"Merlin's beard," Harry breathed, staring at his transformed sword in amazement. "It's incredible."
"And extremely dangerous," Gowry warned. "That blade could cut through steel now, but it's also unstable. You have perhaps thirty seconds before the lightning either dissipates or..." He gestured vaguely.
"Or what?"
"Or it explodes in your hands. Generally best to avoid that outcome."
Harry carefully lifted the electrified sword, marveling at how light it felt despite the crackling energy surrounding it. The lightning didn't hurt him—it felt more like an extension of his own power, as natural as breathing.
"Does this mean I already mastered it?" Harry asked, earning a snort from Roddard.
"Of course not, did you really think it would be that easy, what you did is the bare minimum of this incantiation."
"Right," he said, looking around for a suitable target. "Where should I test this?"
Gowry pointed to a section of the archive where several thick stone pillars supported the ceiling. "Those should suffice. But mind the books—some of them are irreplaceable."
Harry approached the nearest pillar, raised his sword, and brought it down in a simple overhead strike. The results were spectacular. The lightning-infused blade sliced through the stone like it was butter, sending chunks of masonry flying and leaving a perfectly smooth cut. The electrical discharge lit up the entire archive for a brief moment, casting dancing shadows across the floating books.
"Bloody hell," Harry said, staring at his sword as the lightning finally faded. "That was..."
"Impressive," Roddard admitted grudgingly. "Though your form was terrible. You swung it like an axe."
"Well, excuse me for not having centuries of sword training," Harry retorted. "I've been doing this for less than a week."
"Which brings up an interesting point," Gowry said, leaning forward with renewed interest. "How exactly did you come to meet these two? It's not every day that someone stumbles across a Cleanrot Knight and the daughter of Princess Malenia in the depths of Caelid."
Harry set his sword down carefully, still feeling the residual tingle of electricity in his fingertips. The question brought back memories of that terrifying first day in Caelid.
"It's a bit of a long story," Harry began, settling onto a nearby stool. "I was in Limgrave with Melina, she is my friend, exploring some ruins near the lake where that dragon Agheel likes to lurk. We'd gone underground to escape its fire breath, and down there we found this chest—old, metallic, covered in strange markings."
"You opened it," Gowry said, not quite making it a question.
"Course I did," Harry replied with a rueful grin. "Hermione always said my curiosity would be the death of me. The moment I touched the lid, white smoke poured out and I felt like I was being pulled inside out. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in a cave in Caelid with no idea where Melina had gone."
Millicent shifted slightly, her golden eye fixed on him with interest. "That sounds like a trap chest," she said. "There are several scattered throughout the ruins. Most teleport you somewhere unpleasant."
"Unpleasant is putting it mildly," Harry said with a shudder. "When I crawled out of that cave and saw the sky... it was like looking at a wound."
Gowry nodded sagely. "The Scarlet Rot corrupts everything it touches. Most visitors to Caelid don't survive their first hour."
"I nearly didn't," Harry admitted. "I was wandering around completely lost, trying to avoid the burning hollows and those nightmare crows, when I spotted what looked like a church in the distance. Thought maybe I could find some shelter, or at least somewhere to think without being attacked."
Roddard's helmet turned toward him with what Harry had learned to recognize as his 'disapproving stare.' "You thought wrong."
"Too right I did," Harry said with a laugh. "The moment I got close, this armored knight here comes clanking out with his spear, telling me to sod off in the most creative ways possible."
"I was protecting Lady Millicent," Roddard said stiffly. "You are clearly a Tarnished—dirty, armed, and desperate. Exactly the sort who might try to harm her."
"Fair enough," Harry conceded. "Though calling me 'tarnished filth' was a bit much."
Gowry chuckled, clearly enjoying the story. "And yet you're both here, so obviously you didn't kill each other. What happened?"
Harry's expression grew more serious as he remembered the fight. "We fought. Or rather, he nearly killed me. I managed to get in a few good hits with my lightning, but he was faster, stronger, and actually knew what he was doing with a spear."
"The boy summoned lightning the size of a carriage," Roddard added, a note of grudging respect in his voice. "Nearly brought down the church entrance."
"Nearly?" Harry protested. "I thought I had you!"
"You missed by ten feet."
"Details," Harry waved dismissively, then grew more sober. "The fight would've ended with me as a corpse, but right at the critical moment, we heard coughing from inside the church. Millicent's coughing."
Millicent smiled faintly. "Perfect timing on my part."
"It distracted him just long enough for me to crawl inside and reach the Site of Grace," Harry continued. "When Millicent saw me, she told Roddard not to kill me. Lucky for me, he actually listens to her."
"I listen because she outranks me," Roddard corrected. "Princess Malenia's daughter has authority over a mere knight."
"And because you care about her," Harry added quietly, earning another of those metallic snorts from the knight.
Gowry stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. "An interesting tale. But I'm curious about something Roddard mentioned while you were training—you used the Scarlet Rot to enhance yourself during the fight?"
"Yeah, that happened. Near the end of the fight, when I thought I was done for. The Rot had infected me, but instead of killing me, it... changed me. Made me faster, stronger."
"Describe it exactly," Gowry said, his voice taking on an urgent edge.
Harry frowned, trying to recall the sensation. "It was like fire in my veins. More like... like flying, like I was in a broom. Everything felt sharper, clearer. My sword moved faster than it ever had before."
Gowry and Roddard exchanged what Harry was beginning to recognize as a significant look. The scholar leaned forward in his chair, his ancient eyes glittering with something that might have been concern or fascination.
"That's... troubling," Gowry said slowly.
"Troubling how?" Harry asked.
"Princess Malenia experienced similar episodes," Gowry explained, his voice growing grave. "Moments when the Scarlet Rot, instead of weakening her, would grant her tremendous power. But each time it happened..."
"What?" Harry pressed when the scholar trailed off.
"Each time, she lost a little more of herself," Roddard finished, his voice hollow. "The Rot would claim another piece of her humanity. By the end, before her final battle with Radahn, she was more plague than person."
"Are you saying I'm going to turn into... into what she became?"
"I don't know," Gowry admitted, and his uncertainty was somehow worse than a definitive answer would have been. "You show remarkable resistance to the Rot—you can carry Lady Millicent without being infected, for instance. But this ability to channel it, to draw power from it... that's concerning."
"How concerning?" Harry asked.
Gowry was quiet for a long moment, studying Harry like he was a particularly complex equation. "The risk is that each time you tap into that power, the Rot claims a little more of you. Your body, your mind, your very soul. You might retain your consciousness longer than most, but eventually..."
"Eventually I become a walking plague," Harry finished grimly.
"Perhaps not," Gowry said thoughtfully. "Your resistance is unlike anything I've studied. And if we can find Prince Miquella's needle—the one Commander O'Neil carries—it might halt the Rot's progression entirely for you and Lady Millicent."
"Might," Harry repeated flatly.
"It's the best hope we have," Gowry said simply. "But it means you must be extremely careful about when and how you use the Rot's power. Save it for only the most desperate circumstances."
Harry looked at Millicent, who met his gaze with her golden eye. There was sympathy there, and understanding. She'd lived her entire life with this curse, knowing it could consume her at any moment.
"Right then," Harry said, straightening his shoulders with forced determination. "Let's get back to learning this Vyke's Dragonbolt technique. If I'm going to fight a legendary commander, I'd rather do it with lightning than rot."
Gowry smiled approvingly. "Wise choice. And Harry? The fact that you can make that choice, that you're fighting against the Rot's influence rather than embracing it... that may be what saves you in the end."
"Here's hoping," Harry muttered, picking up his sword again. As he began gathering lightning in his chest, he tried not to think about the crimson veins that still pulsed faintly beneath his skin, or the way the Rot had felt like coming home.
The Three Sisters
The moonlight filtered through the tower of her own design. Four spectral arms moved as Ranni the Witch traced complex patterns in the air, her porcelain face reflecting the ghostly light like carved ivory. The Dark Moon hung heavy in the star-drunk sky above.
At the tower's base, a massive figure knelt in perfect silence. Blaidd the Half-Wolf remained motionless as stone, his great sword planted before him, both hands resting on its crossguard in a pose of absolute devotion. He wore the Armor of House Carian, where a human head should be, there was a wolf head with intelligent eyes.
"The threads of fate grow tangled, my faithful shadow," Ranni's voice drifted down like winter wind through bare branches. "A wanderer from beyond the veil walks the Lands Between."
Blaidd's ears pricked, though he did not lift his head. "Another Tarnished seeks the Elden Ring, my lady?"
"Nay." Ranni said with a smile. "This one hails from a realm where different laws hold sway. Where magic flows through wands of wood, and death is permanent."
The Half-Wolf's head tilted slightly. "What manner of being could survive beyond the Fog?"
"One touched by dragon's fire, yet unmarked by Grace." Ranni's porcelain features remained expressionless, but something in her tone carried weight. "One who bears lightning in his hands and defiance in his heart. The stars whisper his name—Harry Potter—though here he is but a lost child seeking his way home."
Blaidd shifted, his armor creaking softly. "And where does this lost child wander now?"
"In the scarlet wasteland of Caelid, where the Rot blooms eternal." Ranni descended the stairs, her tattered black dress trailing behind her like a blue shadow. "He carries the daughter of Malenia, though he knows not what burden he bears. And somewhere in the mists between worlds, a Finger Maiden searches for her lost ward."
The mention of Melina caused Blaidd's head to rise slightly. "The burned maiden seeks this outsider?"
"She who bears the purpose yet lacks the memory." Ranni's four arms moved in concert, producing a bronze ring. The metal was warm to the touch, with letters carved into its face. "Take this token, my faithful Blaidd. Journey to the rotlands and find the one who does not belong."
Blaidd rose to his feet, accepting the ring with reverence. "You would have me aid a stranger? One who may threaten your designs?"
"Threaten?" Ranni giggled. "Nay, dear shadow. This one is integral to my next step, though he comprehends it not. His very existence tears holes in the Golden Order's tapestry, he is another one who is free of the influence of the Two Fingers—holes through which my Dark Moon may shine."
The Half-Wolf studied the bronze ring, feeling its warmth pulse against his palm like a heartbeat. "And if he proves false? If love makes him weak, as it did Knight Vyke?"
Ranni's porcelain face turned toward him, her ghost face studying him closely as did her doll face. "Vyke's devotion blinded him to necessity. He loved too deeply. But this Harry Potter..." She paused, her spectral arms weaving new patterns. "His heart beats for those beyond these lands. His love pulls him away from power, not toward it."
"You speak as though you have seen his path already written."
"The stars reveal much to those who know their language." Ranni glided past him, moving toward the chamber's center where ancient moonbeams converged. "But know this, faithful Blaidd—from this moment until the day the child finds his way to my tower, he is thy master. Serve him as thou servest me."
Blaidd's massive frame went rigid. "Princess Ranni?"
"Thou heardest true." Ranni's voice carried the weight of cosmic authority. "Guide him, protect him, ensure he grows strong enough to face what comes. When the stars align and the old order crumbles, I shall have need of one who stands outside fate's design."
The Half-Wolf knelt again, though his confusion was evident in the set of his shoulders. To serve another, even temporarily, went against every instinct bred into his bones. Yet Ranni's will was absolute—had always been absolute since the day he became her Shadow by the Two Fingers centuries ago.
"It shall be as you command, my lady. But I confess I do not understand why this outsider matters so greatly to your designs."
"Because, dear shadow, he has already done what I thought impossible. He has touched the Scarlet Rot and remained himself. He carries the cursed daughter of my half sister, and shows her kindness without price. And most importantly..." She paused, silver light dancing around her ethereal form. "He possesses something the demigods have forgotten—the ability to choose love over power."
Blaidd absorbed this in silence, then reached for the curved blade that lay at his feet, not the weapon he used; his own was a greatsword. This new weapon was strange—its edge split partway down the blade's length, the two halves spiraling around each other like serpents.
"The Royal Greatsword," Ranni observed with approval. "Fitting, for the task ahead. The blade that can cut through fate itself shall serve to protect one who stands outside it."
"When shall I depart?" Blaidd asked, securing the weapon across his back.
"Now. The child faces trials that shall either forge him into something greater, or break him entirely. See that it is the former." Ranni turned to face him, placing one of her doll hands on his shoulder. "And Blaidd? When next we meet, we will be one step closer. The Age of the Stars shall free us all."
"Remember this, my dear Shadow. The stars do not merely shine, Blaidd—they weave. Each point of light is a thread in fate's grand tapestry, and I have spent centuries learning to read their pattern. But this child from beyond the veil? He is a blade thrust through the fabric itself, tearing holes where none should exist. The Two Fingers thought they had written the ending to this tale, but Harry Potter's very presence rewrites the story with each breath. When destiny itself bleeds, even a witch may dream of remaking the world in moonlight."
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