HOGWARTS LEGENDS: CHAPTER 1 - OF VALOR AND MAGIC (Part one)
PROLOGUE: THE LION'S BURDEN
Saxon Borderlands, Wessex, 988 AD
The morning mist clung to the village like a shroud, thick enough to taste. Godric of Gryffindor had learned to love the mist—it made his work easier. Quieter. Less blood.
He dismounted from his horse at the edge of the village, boots squelching in mud still wet from last night's rain. Forty-two years old, with red-gold hair fading to silver at the temples and a face carved by violence into something weathered and unreadable. His mail hauberk clinked softly beneath his traveling cloak as he moved, and on his belt hung two implements that defined his entire existence: a Carolingian longsword on his left hip, and a wand of yew wood bound in silver on his right.
He kept them separate. Always separate.
The screaming started before he reached the village square.
"Demon-child! Surrender her to God's judgment!"
Godric's jaw tightened. He'd heard these words in a dozen villages, a hundred hamlets. The script never changed, only the faces of the terrified and the zealous.
He rounded the corner to find twenty armed men surrounding a small house. Their leader was Father Cuthbert, a priest whose piety was matched only by his cruelty. Godric had encountered his type before—men who found power in other people's fear, who dressed their ambition in holy robes.
"The child is seven years old," a woman's voice cried from inside the house. "She's done nothing wrong!"
"She made a doll fly, goodwife!" Father Cuthbert's voice was sharp with righteous fury. "She is touched by the Devil! Surrender her for cleansing, or we burn the house with all of you inside!"
Godric stepped forward, his footfalls deliberately loud on the wooden walkway. "Then you'll have to burn me as well, Father."
Twenty heads turned. Hands went to weapons.
Father Cuthbert's eyes narrowed. "Who dares interrupt God's work?"
"Someone who remembers that God commanded 'suffer the little children to come unto me.'" Godric's voice was mild, almost gentle. It was the voice he used before violence. "I invoke the ancient right of trial by combat. If God finds this child guilty, He will grant your champion victory over me. If not..." He let the implication hang in the air.
"You dare twist Scripture to protect a demon-spawn?"
"I dare invoke the law your own Church recognizes." Godric's hand didn't move toward his weapons. Not yet. "Send your champion, Father. Or admit you doubt God's judgment."
A ripple went through the crowd. Trial by combat was sacred law, recognized by both Church and Crown. To refuse was to admit doubt in God's will.
A young knight stepped forward, his armor polished, his face zealous with the certainty of youth. "I am Sir Aelred, sworn to the service of God and King. I accept your challenge, stranger."
Godric nodded once. "Then draw your blade, Sir Aelred. And may God reveal the truth."
The villagers scrambled back, forming a rough circle. Father Cuthbert's face was tight with frustrated rage, but he couldn't refuse now. Not without appearing a coward.
Sir Aelred drew his sword—a beautiful weapon, probably a gift from some proud father—and fell into a guard stance. He was young, trained, confident.
He was also about to learn what twenty years of protecting the helpless from men like him had taught Godric about violence.
Godric drew only his sword. Left hand only. The wand remained on his belt.
They circled each other for three heartbeats. Then Aelred charged with the impetuousness of youth and righteousness, his blade coming down in a powerful overhead strike.
Godric sidestepped, parried with minimal effort, and used Aelred's own momentum to send him stumbling past. The younger knight recovered quickly—he had skill, Godric would grant him that—and came again with a series of cuts and thrusts.
Godric met each one, his movements economical, almost lazy. He'd learned long ago that the key to sword fighting wasn't strength or speed, but efficiency. Every movement had to serve a purpose. Every strike had to be necessary.
Aelred was breathing hard now, frustrated. He lunged forward with a desperate thrust.
Godric simply wasn't there. He'd pivoted to the side, brought his pommel down on Aelred's wrist, and the young knight's sword clattered to the mud. Before Aelred could recover, Godric's blade was at his throat.
"God has spoken," Godric said quietly, loud enough for all to hear. "The child is innocent."
Sir Aelred's face was white with shock and shame, but he nodded stiffly. Honor demanded he accept the verdict.
Father Cuthbert's face had gone purple. "This proves nothing! He used trickery, not—"
"Then send another champion," Godric interrupted, his voice still mild. "Or ten. Or twenty. I'll duel them all, Father. And when I've defeated them all, you'll have to accept that perhaps—just perhaps—a child who accidentally levitates a toy isn't possessed by demons, but simply gifted with something you don't understand."
Silence. The witch-hunters looked at each other. None stepped forward.
"I thought not." Godric sheathed his sword and walked toward the house. "Goodwife! You and your daughter are free to go. I know a place where gifts like hers are understood. Where she'll be safe."
The door opened slowly. A woman emerged, clutching a small girl to her chest. The child's eyes were huge with fear, but also... wonder. She was staring at Godric like he was a knight from the old stories.
He knew that look. He'd seen it on dozens of children's faces.
It never got easier.
He knelt down to the girl's level, ignoring the mud soaking into his breeches. "What's your name, little one?"
"A-Anna, my lord."
"Anna. That's a beautiful name." He smiled, though it felt like cracking stone. "What you can do—making things float, moving objects with your mind—it's not evil. It's magic. And magic is just... a part of who you are. Like having brown eyes, or being able to sing. Do you understand?"
Anna nodded slowly.
"Good. Now, your mother and I are going to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere with other children like you. Would you like that?"
Another nod, more certain this time.
Godric stood, addressing the mother. "Gather what you can carry. We leave within the hour. The sanctuary is three days north, hidden in the Welsh mountains."
As the woman hurried back inside, Father Cuthbert found his voice again. "This isn't over, stranger. The Church will hear of this. You cannot protect them all."
Godric turned to face the priest, and for just a moment, let the mask slip. Let Cuthbert see what lay beneath the mild words and gentle demeanor.
"No," Godric agreed, his voice soft and infinitely dangerous. "I can't protect them all. But I can protect this one. And the next one. And the one after that. For as long as I draw breath, Father, I will stand between frightened children and men like you who mistake fear for righteousness."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And if you send men after us, I won't be using just my sword."
His hand brushed the wand at his belt. Just a touch. Just enough.
Father Cuthbert went pale.
Godric turned away, climbed onto his horse, and waited for Anna and her mother to emerge. As they walked toward him, as the villagers watched in fearful silence, he allowed himself one moment of bitter satisfaction.
One more child saved.
How many more until he could rest?
How many more until the nightmares stopped?
He didn't know. But he knew he couldn't stop. Not while children were still dying for the crime of being different.
They rode north into the mist, and behind them, Father Cuthbert watched with hate-filled eyes and began planning his report to the Bishop.
The great machine of persecution ground on, indifferent to one man's defiance.
But that one man kept fighting anyway.
Because someone had to.
CHAPTER ONE: THE SANCTUARY
Welsh Mountains, Three Days Later
The ruins of the ancient stone circle appeared through the trees like bones breaking through soil. Huge standing stones, weathered by a thousand years of wind and rain, arranged in a pattern that predated Christianity, predated Rome, perhaps predated memory itself.
This was Bryn Celli, though the locals had long since forgotten its name. They avoided it now, called it haunted, cursed.
They were half right.
It was protected.
As Godric led Anna and her mother up the narrow path, the air seemed to thicken, to resist. This was the outer ward—a subtle enchantment that made the unwelcome feel uneasy, made them want to turn back, made them forget why they'd come here in the first place.
But Godric had the password. He drew his wand—the first time Anna had seen it—and traced a symbol in the air. The resistance vanished like mist before sun.
"Magic," Anna whispered, her eyes wide.
"Magic," Godric agreed. "Used properly. To protect, not harm."
They crested the hill, and the sanctuary revealed itself.
Forty-three people lived here—Godric had counted them just last week. Tents and rough shelters clustered around the standing stones. Smoke from cooking fires drifted up through the canopy. Children played under the watchful eyes of elders. A young woman practiced levitating stones, her face tight with concentration.
This was what Godric fought for. This small pocket of safety in a world gone mad with fear.
An elderly woman emerged from the largest tent, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. Morgana the Wise, they called her. She'd been old when Godric was young, and somehow seemed to get no older. Celtic druid blood ran strong in her veins.
"Another one, Lion?" Her voice was dry as autumn leaves. "You'll fill these mountains with refugees before you're done."
"Better alive in the mountains than dead in the valleys," Godric replied, dismounting. He helped Anna and her mother down. "This is Anna. She can levitate objects. And her mother, who refused to let the Church murder her child."
Morgana's eyes softened. "Brave woman. Come, both of you. You're safe here. We'll find you shelter, food, and company."
As Morgana led them away, Godric unsaddled his horse, his movements automatic. He was exhausted—three days of hard riding, sleeping in ditches, always watching for pursuit. His body ached. His soul ached worse.
"Master Godric!"
He turned to find a boy of thirteen running toward him. Eadric. Fire-haired, gap-toothed, filled with that peculiar combination of anger and hope that only adolescence could produce. The boy had been here for two months now, saved from a burning in Mercia.
"Eadric." Godric managed a smile. "How are your studies?"
"Boring." The boy's face was mutinous. "Why do we have to learn control? Why can't you teach us to fight?"
Here it was again. The question Godric dreaded most.
"Come walk with me," he said quietly.
They walked in silence through the camp, past children practicing basic spells under supervision, past healers tending to the sick, past scholars copying precious books before they could be burned by zealous priests.
Finally, they reached the edge of the camp, where the forest began and the stones cast long shadows.
"You want to know why I don't teach combat magic," Godric said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes." Eadric's jaw was set stubbornly. "We're more powerful than they are. We could fight back. We could make them stop hunting us."
Godric was silent for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. "Eadric, do you know how many men I've killed?"
The boy blinked, surprised by the question. "No, master."
"Neither do I." Godric's voice was flat, emotionless. "I stopped counting after a hundred. That was fifteen years ago."
He drew his sword with his left hand, his wand with his right. Held them up so Eadric could see.
"The sword is for those without magic. Knights, soldiers, zealots who come with steel and faith. I duel them according to the laws of honor, the rules of combat. Sword against sword. This—" he raised his left hand "—is the warrior."
He shifted, raising his right hand.
"The wand is for those with magic. Dark wizards who've sold their souls for gold and power. Sorcerers who hunt their own kind. Against them, I use magic. Wand against wand. This—" he raised his right hand "—is the wizard."
He held both weapons at his sides, not touching, separate.
"I keep them separate, Eadric. Always separate. Do you know why?"
The boy shook his head, fascinated despite himself.
"Because together..." Godric's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Together, they make me a monster."
For just an instant—just a flash—Godric let the memory surface. Himself at twenty-four, younger than he'd ever feel again, standing in a burning village with both weapons drawn, magic and steel fused into something terrible. Bodies everywhere. Some guilty. Some innocent. All dead by his hand.
The horror of realizing what he'd become. What he'd done.
The vow he'd made that day, kneeling in the ashes: Never again. Never both. Not unless there was no other choice.
He sheathed both weapons, breaking the spell of memory.
"Magic responds to emotion, Eadric. Fear makes it wild. Anger makes it dangerous. If you learn to fight with magic, you'll learn to hate. And hatred is what drives them to hunt us. We can't become what they fear."
"But they're already hunting us," Eadric protested, his voice breaking. "My mother died because we wouldn't fight back. She died because we were good and meek and obedient, and they burned her anyway!"
Godric's heart clenched. "I know."
"Then why? Why do we hide? Why do we run?"
"Because," Godric said gently, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, "the moment we start slaughtering them, we prove every evil thing they believe about us. We become the demons from their nightmares. And then even the good people—the ones who might have helped us, who might have spoken for us—will turn against us. We'll be alone, Eadric. Truly alone."
"We're already alone," the boy whispered.
Godric had no answer for that. Because it was true.
They stood in silence, teacher and student, protector and protected, both trapped in a world that had no place for people like them.
Finally, Eadric spoke again, his voice small. "Will it ever get better?"
"I don't know," Godric admitted. It was the most honest thing he could say. "But I know that giving up makes it certain it won't. So we keep going. We protect each other. We teach the young ones control. We preserve knowledge. We wait for the world to change."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we make it change." Godric's voice was firm. "But with wisdom, not violence. With education, not revenge. That's the only way forward, Eadric. The only way that doesn't end with all of us dead and the world convinced we were monsters."
Eadric nodded slowly, though Godric could see the anger still simmering beneath the surface. The boy was young, hurt, afraid. A dangerous combination.
Godric made a mental note to watch him more carefully.
If only he'd watched carefully enough.
CHAPTER TWO: THE DARK ALLIANCE
Castle Cynric, Mercia
King Cynric II of Mercia was not a patient man.
He paced his throne room like a caged wolf, his purple robes swishing with each agitated turn. Before him knelt twelve figures in dark robes, their faces hidden by deep hoods. Beside the throne stood Bishop Wulfstan, his hands folded piously, his eyes cold as winter stone.
"Explain to me again," Cynric said, his voice dangerously soft, "how a single man continues to make fools of my witch-hunters."
The figure in the lead hood raised his head slightly. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth as oil on water. "Godric of Gryffindor is no ordinary man, Your Majesty. He is a battle-mage of considerable power. He has protected magical vermin for twenty years. He knows every trick, every tactic."
"I don't want excuses, Malachar," Cynric snapped. "I want results. Every village he visits becomes a problem. People start questioning. They start asking why we hunt magic-users. They start wondering if perhaps the Church is wrong."
"The Church is never wrong," Bishop Wulfstan intoned. "The Church is God's voice on Earth."
"Yes, yes." Cynric waved a dismissive hand. Politics required he pay lip service to the Church's authority. But privately, he cared less about God's will than about consolidating power. The witch-hunts were useful—they let him seize lands from accused nobles, eliminate rivals, keep the populace frightened and obedient.
Godric of Gryffindor threatened that carefully constructed system.
Malachar rose smoothly to his feet. He was tall, lean, with a face that might have been handsome before bitterness carved it into something cruel. Once, he'd been a druid. Once, he'd protected his own people.
Then the hunts began, and Malachar made a choice: die with his people, or survive by hunting them.
He chose survival. He always chose survival.
"Your Majesty," Malachar said, "the Crimson Circle has been tracking magical activity for months. We've identified a large gathering. The village of Godstone, near the Welsh border. At least two hundred magic-users, possibly more."
Cynric's eyes gleamed. "Two hundred?"
"Men, women, children. Healers, wise-women, hedge witches. The largest concentration we've seen in years." Malachar paused. "And intelligence suggests young Eadric—the boy who escaped our cleansing in Shrewsbury—has gone there to find his mother."
"Eadric." Bishop Wulfstan's voice was thoughtful. "The fire-starter. Yes, I remember him. Powerful, but untrained. Dangerous."
"Perfect," Cynric said, a smile spreading across his face. "We'll make an example of Godstone. A grand cleansing. Public. Massive. Every magic-user in Britain will see what happens when they gather in defiance of God's law."
"And Godric?" Malachar asked.
"If he comes to rescue them, all the better. We'll have the Lion and his pride in one place." Cynric turned to Wulfstan. "Bishop, you said you'd developed a new ritual?"
Wulfstan's smile was thin and terrible. "Indeed, Your Majesty. The Rite of Severance. It... extracts magic from the unwilling. Tears it from their very soul."
"What happens to them afterward?"
"They die." Wulfstan said it as simply as discussing the weather. "But they die cleansed. Their souls, freed from demonic corruption, may yet find salvation."
"How merciful," Cynric said dryly. "And you're certain it works?"
"We've tested it on smaller subjects. The results were... conclusive."
Malachar shifted slightly. Even he, who'd betrayed everything he once stood for, felt a flicker of unease at the Rite of Severance. There were lines even he hesitated to cross.
But survival demanded flexibility. Survival demanded doing what was necessary.
"Excellent," Cynric declared. "Malachar, take your Crimson Circle to Godstone. Round up every magic-user you can find. Bishop Wulfstan, prepare your ritual. We'll perform it publicly, on the village square. Let everyone see what happens to witches and demons."
"And the boy?" Wulfstan asked. "Eadric?"
"Save him for last." Cynric's smile was cruel. "Make sure Godric sees it, if he comes. Nothing breaks a hero like watching someone he tried to protect suffer for his failures."
The twelve members of the Crimson Circle bowed in unison and filed out. Bishop Wulfstan lingered a moment longer.
"Your Majesty, if I may speak plainly?"
"You may."
"Godric of Gryffindor is dangerous. Not because of his power—we have twelve trained combat mages, your army, and God's blessing. But because of what he represents."
"Which is?"
"Hope." Wulfstan's voice was soft. "He gives magic-users hope that they can be protected. That they can resist. Hope is the most dangerous weapon our enemies possess. When we break him at Godstone, when we make him watch children die and know he's powerless to stop it..."
The Bishop's thin smile returned.
"We won't just be killing magic-users, Your Majesty. We'll be killing hope itself."
Cynric nodded slowly. "I see why the Church values you, Bishop. You think like a soldier, not a priest."
"I serve God's will," Wulfstan replied piously. "And God wills that demons be cast out, no matter what form they take."
After the Bishop departed, Cynric stood alone in his throne room, staring at the maps spread across his table. Maps of Britain, dotted with markers indicating witch-hunts, cleansings, confiscated lands.
So much gained. So much more to gain.
And only one man stood consistently in his way.
Soon, Cynric thought. Soon the Lion would fall.
And when he did, when Godric of Gryffindor was finally broken, the last real resistance to the hunts would crumble.
Then there would be no one left to stop the Church's—and by extension, Cynric's—total control over magical Britain.
The king smiled and poured himself wine.
Soon.
CHAPTER THREE: THE RACE TO GODSTONE
The Sanctuary, Five Days Later
Godric was teaching a group of children basic shield charms when the wounded man stumbled into camp.
He was barely standing, held upright by two scouts who'd found him collapsed on the forest path. Blood soaked through his tunic from a dozen cuts. His face was gray with blood loss and terror.
"Godstone," he gasped as Morgana and her healers rushed to his side. "They're attacking Godstone. The King's army... the Crimson Circle... everyone..."
Godric's blood went cold. "How many?"
"Thousands. A thousand soldiers, maybe more. And the dark wizards. All twelve of them."
"When?"
"They were assembling when I escaped. Two days ago. I rode day and night to warn—" The man's eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
"Get him to the healing tent," Morgana ordered. Her ancient eyes met Godric's. "It's a trap."
"I know."
"They want you to come."
"I know that too."
"You can't save them all, Godric. Not against those numbers."
"I know." Godric was already moving toward his tent, his mind racing through tactics, strategies, impossibilities. "But I have to try."
He emerged minutes later in his mail hauberk, his sword and wand on his belt, a pack with basic supplies on his back. His horse was already saddled—one of the stable boys had read the situation and prepared without being asked.
Morgana stood in his path.
"If you do this," she said quietly, "if you go to Godstone and fight those numbers... you'll have to use both."
Godric's hand unconsciously touched his sword, then his wand.
"I'll find another way."
"There is no other way. Not against twelve dark wizards and an army."
"Then I'll die trying." Godric started to move past her.
"Wait." Morgana's voice was sharp. "Eadric is missing."
Godric froze. "What?"
"He left three days ago. One of the children saw him sneaking out at night. He took food, a bedroll. Godric..." Her voice was heavy. "His mother was in Godstone."
No.
"He wouldn't," Godric said, but even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie. Of course Eadric would. A thirteen-year-old boy, desperate to see his mother, convinced he could sneak in and out without being caught.
Gods, Godric had been that age once. He'd done equally stupid things.
"I have to go," he said. "Now."
"If you use both weapons," Morgana said, her voice urgent, "if you fuse sword and magic... you may not come back. Not as yourself. The man who walks away from Godstone may not be the man I know."
"Then stop me when I return," Godric said simply. "Give me the duel I've been seeking. End it cleanly."
Morgana's eyes glistened. "You want to die."
"I want to stop," Godric corrected. "There's a difference. I'm tired, Morgana. So tired. Twenty years of fighting, of watching children die, of never being enough, never saving enough..." He shook his head. "But not yet. Not while Eadric is in danger. Not while two hundred innocents are about to be slaughtered."
He mounted his horse.
"Evacuate the sanctuary. Take everyone north, toward Scotland. If I don't return in a week, assume I'm dead and keep moving."
"Godric—"
"That's an order, Morgana." His voice was steel. "You're the Wise One. You lead them. You keep them safe. That's your duty."
He kicked his horse into motion before she could protest further.
Behind him, Morgana watched him ride away, a lone man against an army, and whispered an ancient prayer to gods who'd stopped listening long ago.
Godric rode like the devil himself pursued him.
Through forests and across streams, barely stopping to rest, pushing his horse to the edge of endurance. The landscape blurred past. His mind was focused on a single point: Godstone.
Please let me be in time. Please let Eadric be smart enough to hide. Please let them not have started yet.
But he knew. Somehow, deep in his bones, he knew he was too late.
He'd always been too late.
On the third day of hard riding, he crested a hill and saw smoke on the horizon. Black smoke, the kind that came from burning buildings.
Or pyres.
He pushed his exhausted horse harder.
Godstone appeared before him like something from a nightmare.
The village square was surrounded by soldiers. Hundreds of them, forming tight ranks, preventing escape. In the center, massive wooden structures rose—not one pyre, but dozens. Hundreds of people were chained to them, or kneeling in the mud with bound hands.
Men. Women. Children. The old and the young. Anyone with even a whisper of magical ability.
And standing in formation before them, robes billowing in the wind, were the twelve members of the Crimson Circle.
Godric didn't hesitate. He spurred his horse directly toward them, drawing his sword as he charged.
"STOP THIS!"
His voice cut through the chaos. Heads turned. Soldiers moved to intercept him.
He cut through them like a scythe through wheat—not killing, just disarming, incapacitating. He had to reach the center, had to stop the ritual, had to—
A blast of dark energy caught him in the chest.
He flew from his horse, crashed into the mud, his sword flying from his grip. Before he could rise, chains of pure magical force wrapped around him, slamming him to his knees.
Scyld the Binder stepped forward, his wand pointed at Godric. "The Lion arrives. Right on schedule."
Godric struggled against the chains, but they held fast. He reached for his wand with his free hand—
Another spell caught him, this one paralyzing his arm.
Malachar emerged from the ranks of the Crimson Circle, his face composed, almost sad. "Don't, Godric. We have you bound seven ways. You're not breaking free. Not this time."
"Malachar." Godric's voice was ragged. "Please. These are your people. They're—"
"My people?" Malachar's laugh was bitter. "My people are dead, Godric. All of them. Burned, drowned, hanged. I'm all that's left. And I survived by being practical. By understanding that the strong rule and the weak suffer. That's nature. That's truth."
"That's madness."
"No. Madness is what you do—throwing yourself against an inevitable tide, pretending one man can make a difference." Malachar gestured to the bound prisoners. "Look at them. Two hundred magical folk, all gathered in one place like lambs for slaughter. You encouraged this. You told them they could be safe if they just hid well enough. You filled them with hope."
He leaned closer.
"Hope is cruelty, Godric. It makes the fall so much harder."
"Then why am I alive?" Godric demanded. "Why bind me instead of killing me?"
Malachar's smile was terrible. "Because the Bishop wants you to watch."
He gestured. Soldiers dragged Godric forward, closer to the center of the square, and forced him to his knees. The paralysis spell kept him frozen, unable to even turn his head away.
And then he saw Eadric.
The boy was chained to a platform in the center of the square, directly in front of a raised dais where Bishop Wulfstan stood, holding an ancient book bound in black leather.
Eadric's face was bruised, tear-streaked. But his eyes... his eyes found Godric's, and in them was such hope, such relief.
Master Godric came. Master Godric will save us.
Godric tried to speak, to scream, to do anything. But the paralysis held.
All he could do was watch.
And witness what his failures had wrought.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE RITE OF SEVERANCE
Bishop Wulfstan raised his hands, and the square fell silent.
"Good people of Mercia!" His voice rang out, trained in years of sermons. "You see before you the fruits of demonic corruption. Two hundred souls, tainted by the Devil's gift. Two hundred threats to good Christian folk. Two hundred abominations that must be cleansed!"
A roar of approval from the soldiers. Fear from the prisoners.
"But God, in His infinite mercy, has shown us a way to save even these lost souls!" Wulfstan continued. "Through the Rite of Severance, we shall tear the demonic corruption from them. They shall die, yes—but they shall die pure. They shall die saved!"
No, Godric thought desperately. No, not the Rite. Anything but that.
He'd heard rumors of it. Whispers among the magical community of a ritual so dark, so fundamentally wrong, that even dark wizards refused to use it. A spell that didn't just kill magic-users—it destroyed their magic first, tore it from their souls like ripping out their hearts while they still lived.
The agony was supposed to be indescribable.
Wulfstan opened the black book and began to chant.
Six priests joined him, forming a circle around Eadric's platform. Their voices rose in a discordant harmony, words in a language older and darker than Latin.
Dark runes appeared in the air, glowing with sickly green light.
Eadric started to scream.
The runes descended, branding themselves onto his skin. Wherever they touched, Eadric's flesh burned. The boy thrashed against his chains, his screams escalating into something inhuman.
Godric fought against his bindings with every ounce of strength he possessed. The chains creaked but held. The paralysis spell flickered but remained.
Let me go. Let me save him. Please, gods, let me—
"STOP!" Eadric's voice cut through his own screams. "PLEASE! IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP!"
Wulfstan's chanting grew louder.
Through the crowd, another figure was dragged forward—an older woman, beaten, barely conscious. Eadric's mother.
They tied her to a stake directly in front of her son.
"No," Eadric sobbed. "No, please, not her, please—"
Wulfstan gestured. A soldier lit the pyre.
Eadric's mother woke to flames. Her screams joined her son's.
Godric felt something break inside him. Some fundamental piece of his soul that had held him together through twenty years of horror simply... shattered.
He stopped fighting the paralysis. Stopped trying to break free.
Instead, he went inward. To the core of his magic, the wellspring of power he'd spent two decades carefully controlling, carefully restraining.
He stopped restraining it.
I'm sorry, Morgana. I'm sorry for what I'm about to become.
His eyes began to glow gold.
Eadric watched his mother burn.
The Rite of Severance burned hotter.
The runes carved deeper.
Bishop Wulfstan's voice rose to a crescendo: "DO YOU RENOUNCE THE DEVIL'S GIFT? DO YOU CAST OUT THE DEMON WITHIN?"
"YES!" Eadric screamed, beyond reason, beyond thought. "YES! TAKE IT AWAY! I DON'T WANT IT! I REJECT IT! I REJECT IT!"
The moment the words left his mouth, something fundamental changed.
The runes stopped burning.
They started pulling.
Eadric's magic—the fire he'd feared and loved, the power that had defined him since birth—began to tear away from his soul. Not gently. Not cleanly. Like ripping roots from earth, like tearing flesh from bone.
His screams took on a new quality. Not pain. Not even agony.
Wrongness.
The very fabric of his being was coming apart.
Godric felt the paralysis spell shatter as his power surged. The binding chains exploded into fragments. He lurched to his feet, stumbling forward.
"EADRIC! FIGHT IT! HOLD ON TO YOURSELF!"
But it was too late.
Eadric's eyes had gone completely white, pupils disappearing into milky nothingness. His body convulsed, arching against the chains so violently that bones cracked.
Cracks appeared on his skin—not cuts, but fissures, as if he were made of porcelain and something inside was trying to break free.
Golden-red light poured from the cracks. The smell of burning filled the air, but nothing was on fire. Not yet.
Morgana's words echoed in Godric's mind: "Magic is part of a wizard's soul. If you tear it away, the soul tears too."
"No," Godric whispered. Then louder: "NO!"
He drew both weapons simultaneously.
Left hand: sword.
Right hand: wand.
For the first time in eighteen years, Godric of Gryffindor stopped holding back.
He raised his wand toward Wulfstan, magic gathering at its tip—a killing curse, quick and clean.
But before he could cast it, Eadric spoke.
His voice was layered, distorted, as if multiple versions of him were speaking at once—the boy he was, the man he might have been, and something else. Something broken beyond repair.
"M-Master..."
Godric froze. Their eyes met.
For just an instant, Eadric was there. The real Eadric, the angry, hopeful, frightened boy who'd asked why they didn't fight back.
A single tear rolled down his cracked face.
"I'm... sorry..."
"Eadric, no—"
The light inside Eadric's chest grew blindingly bright.
Godric understood in that instant what was about to happen. The magic, torn from Eadric's soul, had nowhere to go. It was imploding inward, collapsing on itself.
It was going to explode.
"EVERYONE RUN!" Godric roared, already knowing it was futile.
Eadric looked at him one last time. His lips moved, forming words without sound: Save them.
Then he detonated.
The blast wave started as pure white light.
It expanded in a perfect sphere, silent at first, moving at the speed of thought.
Everything it touched simply... ceased.
The platform Eadric had been chained to didn't burn or break—it disintegrated into ash. The soldiers standing closest didn't have time to scream—they became shadows burned into the ground, then even the shadows vanished.
The sound arrived a heartbeat later. Not an explosion—a roar, like the earth itself screaming.
Godric threw up every shield he knew. Layers upon layers of protective magic, woven with desperate speed.
The blast wave hit him like a physical wall.
His shields shattered one by one. The force threw him backward, tumbling through the air. He crashed through a building—the building exploded into splinters around him. Kept tumbling. Hit the ground. Rolled. Came to rest against a boulder that hadn't been there a moment before.
Or had it? Had it always been there? The world was spinning, his ears ringing, blood in his mouth.
He struggled to his feet, swaying.
The ringing in his ears faded, replaced by something worse.
Silence.
Absolute, total silence.
Godric blinked, trying to clear his vision. Tried to understand what he was seeing.
Godstone was gone.
Not burned. Not destroyed.
Gone.
Where the village had stood, where the square had been, where two hundred prisoners and a thousand soldiers had been moments before—there was nothing. Just a massive crater, perfectly circular, stretching for miles in every direction.
The earth was scorched black and smooth as glass. Ash swirled in the air like snow, catching the afternoon light. Nothing remained. No bodies. No buildings. No trees.
Just ash and silence and a crater where lives had been.
In the center, where Eadric had stood, there was only a scorched silhouette on a stone. The outline of a boy, arms outstretched. Already fading.
Godric walked forward. His legs moved without conscious thought. One step. Another. Another.
The ash crunched beneath his boots. The only sound in all the world.
He reached the center. Knelt. Placed his hand on the scorched stone where Eadric had died.
It was still warm.
Around the edges of the crater, figures were stirring. Survivors. The ones who'd been far enough away, or fast enough to shield themselves.
Godric saw Malachar and six other members of the Crimson Circle, their robes torn, faces bleeding, but alive. Half of King Cynric's army had survived, the ones who'd been positioned at the perimeter. Bishop Wulfstan was crawling from beneath a collapsed wagon, his face gray with shock.
King Cynric himself sat on his horse at the far edge of the destruction, staring at the crater with wide, disbelieving eyes.
They'd all seen it. Witnessed what happened when you broke a magical child so completely that his power turned inward.
This was the cost of the Rite of Severance.
This was the price of their righteousness.
Godric stood slowly. His hand found something in the ash—Eadric's pendant. The wooden lion the boy had carved in the sanctuary, worn around his neck for protection.
It hadn't protected him.
Nothing had protected him.
Godric closed his fist around the pendant so tightly that the wood bit into his palm.
He raised his head. His eyes found Malachar, standing at the crater's edge, leaning on his wand, looking shaken but alive.
Their gazes met across three hundred yards of destruction.
Malachar's expression flickered with something—fear? Regret? Understanding?
"This is what happens when magic goes unchecked, Godric!" he called out, his voice cracking. "This is why we hunt them! To prevent exactly this!"
Godric said nothing.
He simply drew both weapons.
Left hand: Sword gleaming in the ash-light.
Right hand: Wand crackling with barely restrained power.
For eighteen years, he'd kept them separate. The warrior and the wizard, never allowed to merge, never allowed to become what he'd been at twenty-four.
That man had died in the ashes of his own atrocity, had sworn never to let the weapons fuse again.
But that vow died with Eadric.
The weapons came together, magic flowing from wand to blade, steel and sorcery becoming one.
Godric's eyes blazed pure gold.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Calm. Absolutely devoid of emotion.
"Run."
Malachar's face went white. "Godric, wait—"
"I said run."
The surviving members of the Crimson Circle looked at each other. As one, they turned and fled.
The soldiers began backing away, then running.
Only Bishop Wulfstan stood his ground, raising his holy book like a shield. "The power of Christ compels you, demon! You cannot—"
Godric raised his wand. A single bolt of red light.
Wulfstan's book exploded into flames. The Bishop shrieked and dropped it, stumbling backward.
King Cynric, finally grasping the danger, wheeled his horse and galloped away, his royal guard streaming after him.
Godric stood alone in the center of the crater.
Two hundred innocents had died here. Eadric had died here. All because he'd been too late, too weak, too bound by his own rules.
No more rules.
No more restraint.
No more mercy.
He looked down at his hands—one holding his sword, one holding his wand. The weapons his mentor had told him to keep separate. The tools that, combined, made him into something terrible.
"I'm sorry, Morgana," he whispered to the ash-filled air. "But they left me no choice."
He began walking toward the fleeing army.
And as he walked, he started to plan.
Not rescue. Not protection.
War.