Leaving the forest behind, Jon headed toward the burning Bran Castle—Dracula Castle.
Halfway up the mountainside, Fiendfyre was still raging inside the castle. However, nearly all the muggles had already escaped. After all, the initial fire hadn't been especially fierce.
Of course, it was possible that a handful of muggles had been trapped inside and burned to death—but there was no helping that. To prevent the vampires' bloody slaughter after nightfall, this was the best solution Jon could come up with. It was effective, but not flawless.
Before nightfall, start a fire inside Bran Castle. Have Sandru disguise himself as the werewolf Gene, infiltrate the castle, and drop a crystal vial containing the strange flames, triggering the fire alarm. That way, the muggles would be forced to evacuate.
At the same time, there was no way the werewolves' magic could control something as terrifying as Fiendfyre. By having Sandru throw in several more crystal vials, the blaze would spiral completely out of control.
Under those circumstances—once the entire castle was engulfed in flames—the werewolves and vampires would have no choice but to abandon their original plans.
As for whether their rage would drive them to chase the giant eagle Sandru fleeing toward the Black Forest… That, however, was a problem for later..
"Does this count as setting a mountain on fire?" Jon muttered with a self-mocking smile.
From the direction of the castle came a series of loud sirens. More than a dozen fire trucks rushed in, blasting powerful streams of water at the flames in an attempt to extinguish them.
It was obviously futile. Fiendfyre wasn't something water could put out.
The fire grew larger and larger, even spreading onto the drawbridge, with faint signs of creeping toward the far side.
"Looks like it's about time," Jon said quietly.
He took out the silver-white, perfectly shaped octahedral box and flicked his wand, sending it gliding toward the castle.
Gradually, the flames weakened. The terrifying inferno curled back into the silver box, and the aura of violence and dread vanished completely.
The muggles thought it was the firefighters' doing and burst into genuine cheers.
Within just a few minutes, Fiendfyre had completely disappeared.
All that remained was the bleak, scorched ruin of Bran Castle.
The silver box returned to Jon's hand, faintly warm to the touch.
Without hesitation, he slipped it into his pocket and retraced his steps toward the Black Forest.
...
The timing was perfect.
When Jon pulled the brass telescope from his suitcase and looked toward the sky above the forest, he saw Sandru—transformed into a giant eagle—fly to the very center of the woods and land. A large group of vampires chased after him through the air. The werewolves were harder to see, but they must have entered the forest as well.
"It's time. The spirits should make their move now."
Without another word, Jon hurled the silver octahedron into the sky once more.
The Fiendfyre, which had just fallen silent, surged out again from the Misericore—but this time, its target was the forest.
At least the castle had been made of stone, which hindered the spread of fire. A forest full of trees, however, instantly pushed Fiendfyre to its maximum intensity.
Flame-born beasts rampaged wildly, annihilating trees and undergrowth alike. From the outer edges, the fire spread steadily toward the forest's center at a speed that defied belief.
Sandru transformed back into a giant eagle and soared high into the sky. At that altitude, the flames could not touch him.
As for Remus Lupin, the moment he felt the scorching heat rolling in from behind, he chose to Apparate without hesitation.
Sandru and Lupin were the two exceptions Jon had instructed the "spirits" to release. All the other vampires and werewolves were tightly bound by those invisible, eerie entities, unable to move or escape.
They could only watch helplessly as their bodies were completely devoured by the terrifying flames.
Fear spread everywhere.
The screams and howls of werewolves and vampires echoed without end.
Jon turned away and walked out of the forest. He found a large rock to sit on and quietly watched the massacre unfolding among the trees.
...
"The forest over there is on fire?" a militia member from Gilău Town shouted in surprise.
Mayor Joseph Pistol frowned. Over the past few days, he had gathered dozens of townsmen into a militia, had them prepare their weapons, and even had their bullets coated in silver.
Fortunately, Pistol's authority in the town was strong enough that these strange preparations hadn't drawn much opposition.
Once everything was ready, he followed Mr. Patrick's instructions and hurried here.
What he didn't know was that the situation had already changed drastically.
"Go take a look," Pistol said steadily.
Dozens of men hurried toward the burning forest.
The distance wasn't far. In just a few minutes, they reached a point roughly five hundred yards from the treeline.
"Should we keep going? The fire's too intense—we might get caught in it," one of the militiamen asked.
Mayor Pistol's expression suddenly changed. He raised his hand, signaling everyone to hide in the bushes.
A sharp, echoing crack suddenly rang out ahead—like a gunshot—ripping through the drowsy stillness.
...
Fenrir Greyback gasped for breath, panting heavily.
He had escaped.
At the very last moment, just before the flames swallowed him, he broke free from those invisible restraints and Apparated out of the forest.
He was, in all likelihood, the sole survivor.
Everyone else—werewolves from across Europe and vampires from Transylvania alike—had been reduced to ash by that horrifying inferno.
Every hair on Fenrir Greyback's body had been burned away, leaving him looking utterly wretched.
The only thing worth being grateful for was that he was still alive.
"Whoever did this… if I ever find out…" the werewolf snarled through clenched teeth, "I'll make them suffer the most horrifying torment imaginable…"
He sat down, planning to rest for a moment.
Then he would hurry back to England and leave this cursed land behind.
...
Mayor Pistol would never forget the face that suddenly appeared before him.
Just days earlier, Mr. Christopher Patrick had shown him a moving newspaper. The face on it was identical to the man now sitting there. Patrick had told him this was the most brutal of all werewolves—the very monster who had murdered his daughter.
Pistol believed him.
So, from within the bushes, he raised his double-barreled shotgun, already loaded with silver bullets.
Every ounce of his fury went into pulling the trigger.
"Bang!"
The gunshot rang out.
"Kill him!" he roared.