CHAPTER FIVE: THE TRANSFORMATION
The Sanctuary, Four Days Later
Godric rode into camp like a ghost.
His horse was exhausted, barely able to walk. Godric himself was covered in ash and dried blood—whether his own or others', it was impossible to tell. His eyes were hollow, staring at nothing.
Morgana met him at the edge of camp. One look at his face told her everything.
"How many?" she asked quietly.
"All of them." His voice was a rasp. "Two hundred prisoners. Gone. Eadric..." He couldn't finish.
"Oh, my boy." Morgana reached for him.
Godric flinched back. "Don't. Please. I'm... I'm not safe right now."
He dismounted, his movements stiff, mechanical. Around the camp, people were emerging from tents, staring. Children pointed. Adults whispered.
The Lion had returned.
But he'd returned changed.
Godric walked to the central altar, where offerings were made to the old gods. He placed Eadric's pendant there, his hand trembling.
"I couldn't save him," he said to no one in particular. Everyone in general. "I tried. I rode for three days. I fought through their soldiers. But I was too late. Too weak. Too..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that they did this. The King. The Bishop. The Crimson Circle. They created the Rite of Severance. They forced Eadric to reject himself. They made him into a bomb."
He turned to face the gathered crowd.
"Godstone is gone. Just... gone. A crater where a village used to be. All those people—guilty and innocent alike—reduced to ash. Because Eadric's magic, torn from his soul, had nowhere to go but out."
Silence. Horrified silence.
"I'm done," Godric said flatly. "Done hiding. Done protecting only to watch them burn. Done playing by their rules while they break every law of decency and humanity."
"Godric," Morgana said carefully, "what are you planning?"
He looked at her. The gold light was back in his eyes.
"I challenged King Cynric. Trial by combat. Him and everyone who follows him, against me. Seven days from now, at Godstone—the field they created. The field where Eadric died."
Murmurs of shock rippled through the crowd.
"That's suicide," someone said.
"That's murder," someone else countered. "Mass murder."
"That's war," Godric corrected. "And they started it. I'm just going to finish it."
Morgana stepped closer, her voice urgent. "Godric, listen to yourself. This isn't you. This is grief talking. Rage talking."
"No." His voice was steady. "This is clarity. For twenty years, I've been telling myself that if we just stay good, stay peaceful, stay hidden, eventually they'll leave us alone. But they won't. They can't. Because we represent everything they fear—power they don't understand, freedom they can't control. As long as we exist, they'll hunt us."
"So your answer is to slaughter them?"
"My answer is to make them understand the cost. To make it too expensive, too painful, too terrifying to hunt magical folk ever again." He paused. "I'm going to kill an army, Morgana. And when I'm done, when King Cynric and Bishop Wulfstan and every knight and soldier who participated in the Godstone massacre are dead, the next king will think very carefully before authorizing another witch-hunt."
"You're becoming the monster they believe you to be."
"I know." Godric's voice was quiet. "But I'm the only monster willing to protect our children. So I'll bear that burden. I'll become the nightmare that keeps them awake. And when it's done, when the threat is ended..." He looked at her meaningfully. "You'll give me the duel I've been seeking. You'll end it. Cleanly."
Morgana's eyes filled with tears. "You want me to kill you."
"I want you to free me," Godric corrected. "I'm so tired, old friend. But not yet. Not until Eadric is avenged. Not until our people are safe. Can you do that for me? Can you give me peace when the work is done?"
She was crying openly now. "If you walk this path, you may not come back. The man who wins this fight... he might not be someone I can reach."
"Then don't reach for him." Godric turned away. "Just end him."
He walked to his tent and began preparations.
CHAPTER SIX: THE ARMAMENT
Over the next three days, Godric transformed himself into a weapon.
First, the sword.
His old blade had served him well, but it wasn't designed for what he was about to do. He needed something shorter, lighter—perfect for one-handed use while his other hand wielded magic.
He worked the forge himself, ignoring offers of help. The physical labor was good. It kept his hands busy, his mind focused on something other than Eadric's final scream.
Twenty-eight inches of folded steel. Single-edged, slightly curved. Light enough to move quickly, heavy enough to bite deep.
As he worked, he carved runes into the blade. Old runes, from before Christianity, from when magic and steel were openly allied. Runes for sharpness, for durability, for the ability to cut through magical shields.
He named it Rubeum. The Red. For the blood it would spill.
For the lion it represented.
When he plunged the finished blade into the quenching oil, flames erupted around it—not from the heat, but from the magic now bound within the steel.
His wand next.
It was yew wood, bound in silver—a good wand, but not great. Not for what he needed.
He took it apart carefully, exposing the core. Then he went to the sanctuary's most sacred place, the heart-stone of the circle, where the oldest and most powerful magic pooled.
He carved a sliver from the stone itself.
"This is dangerous," Morgana warned, watching. "Heart-stone is wild magic. Unpredictable."
"Good," Godric replied. "I need unpredictable. I need overwhelming."
He embedded the stone fragment into his wand's core, alongside the original phoenix feather. Then he wrapped the entire length in enchanted silver wire, inscribing it with amplification runes.
When he was done, the wand thrummed with barely contained power. It was warm to the touch, almost alive.
He pointed it at a dead tree across the clearing. Thought the simplest cutting charm.
The tree exploded into splinters.
"Merlin's blood," someone whispered.
Godric lowered the wand, satisfied. "It'll do."
The third day, he trained.
Alone in a clearing, sword in left hand, wand in right, he practiced the fusion he'd sworn never to use again.
The muscle memory was still there, buried under eighteen years of restraint. It came back frighteningly easily.
Cut with the sword, blast with the wand.
Parry with the blade, curse with magic.
Spin, both weapons moving in perfect synchronization, each enhancing the other, magic and steel becoming a single instrument of destruction.
He'd forgotten how natural it felt. How right.
That was what terrified him.
Because Morgana was right. The man who fought this way, who let the weapons merge completely, who stopped seeing enemies as people and started seeing them as obstacles to be removed—that man was dangerous.
That man had stood in a burning village at twenty-four, surrounded by corpses, and realized too late that some of them had been innocent.
That man had sworn never to exist again.
But Eadric was dead. Two hundred innocents were ash. And the people who'd done it were still alive, still planning more hunts, more cleansings, more atrocities.
So the man who'd died eighteen years ago was going to have to be resurrected.
Just this once.
Just long enough to end the threat.
Then Morgana would end him, and the cycle would be complete.
On the morning of the fourth day, Godric stood before the assembled sanctuary.
He'd changed. Not just in skill, but in presence. The hollow-eyed ghost who'd returned four days ago was gone. In his place stood something harder. Colder.
More dangerous.
"I leave in an hour," he announced. "Morgana, you're in charge. Take everyone north, toward Scotland. There are sympathetic clans there, people who still remember the old ways. You'll be safe."
"And you?" someone asked.
"I'm going to Godstone. To meet King Cynric's army."
"How many soldiers will he bring?"
"All of them, probably. Five thousand, maybe more. Plus the Crimson Circle, what's left of them."
Shocked silence.
"You can't fight five thousand men alone," a young wizard protested.
Godric's smile was cold. "Watch me."
He walked to his horse, checking his supplies one final time. Sword on his left hip, wand on his right. Both weapons now permanently part of him, extensions of his will.
Morgana approached one last time.
"Is there anything I can say to stop this?"
"No."
"Then promise me something."
He looked at her.
"Promise me that if you survive, if you win, you'll come back. Not to fight. Not to kill. Just to remember who you were before the weapons merged. The teacher. The protector. The man who saved little Anna from the witch-hunters."
Godric was quiet for a long moment.
"I'll try," he said finally. "But I don't know if that man will exist anymore when this is done."
"Then I'll help you find him again."
"Or you'll give me peace. Either way." He embraced her briefly. "Thank you, old friend. For everything."
He mounted his horse.
"Godric!" A small voice.
He turned. Anna, the little girl he'd saved in what felt like a lifetime ago, ran forward. She held out a flower—a small wildflower, already wilting.
"For luck," she said shyly.
Godric took it, his expression softening for just an instant. "Thank you, Anna. Stay safe. Be brave."
"Like you?"
"No." His voice was gentle. "Better than me."
He rode away without looking back.
Behind him, the sanctuary began to pack. They'd be gone by nightfall, scattered to the winds, seeking safety in the wild places where the Church's reach didn't extend.
And ahead of him, three days' ride north, an army was gathering.
An army that had no idea what was coming for them.
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE DECLARATION
Castle Cynric, Three Days Later
King Cynric was enjoying his breakfast when Godric of Gryffindor walked through his castle gates.
Walked, not snuck. Not disguised. Not hidden.
Simply walked through the main gates in broad daylight, past the guards (who tried to stop him and found themselves disarmed with contemptuous ease), across the courtyard (where servants scattered), and straight into the great hall where the King held court.
Twenty guards charged him.
Twenty guards ended up unconscious, disarmed, or paralyzed within sixty seconds. Godric hadn't even drawn his sword—just his wand, precise stunners and disarming charms delivered with mechanical efficiency.
He stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by groaning guards, and looked up at King Cynric on his throne.
"Your Majesty." His voice was calm, conversational. "We need to talk."
Cynric's face had gone purple with rage. "SEIZE HIM! Guards! More guards!"
"I wouldn't," Godric said mildly. "I've incapacitated forty-three of your men getting here. I can do more. Or..." He held up his free hand, palm out, peaceful. "We can talk. Like civilized people."
"You dare—"
"I invoke the ancient right of trial by combat," Godric interrupted. His voice cut through the King's bluster like a blade. "You have accused magical folk of being demons, monsters, threats to your kingdom. I stand as their champion. Face me, Your Majesty. You and every man who follows you. Let God judge who is righteous."
The hall fell silent.
Trial by combat was sacred law, older than the Church, recognized by every court in Christendom. To refuse was to admit cowardice, to question God's judgment.
Cynric's political instincts warred with his common sense. He couldn't refuse—not publicly. But accepting meant...
"You're one man," Cynric said slowly. "You challenge my entire army?"
"Yes."
"That's madness."
"That's justice." Godric's eyes were cold. "You massacred two hundred innocents at Godstone. You created a ritual that turned a thirteen-year-old boy into a weapon and detonated him. You've been hunting, torturing, and murdering magical folk for years, stealing their lands, using fear to consolidate power."
He took a step forward.
"So yes, Your Majesty. I challenge you. You, your army, your dark wizards, everyone who participated in the Godstone massacre. Meet me there in three days. The field you created. The crater where Eadric died."
"We'll crush you."
"You're welcome to try."
Cynric leaned back in his throne, studying Godric. The man showed no fear. No hesitation. He meant every word.
Which meant either he was genuinely insane, or...
"What if I refuse?"
Godric's smile was terrible. "Then I'll hunt you. Every noble who authorized a witch-hunt. Every priest who performed a 'cleansing.' Every dark wizard who sold out their own kind. One by one, in the dark, when you're alone and unprotected. I'll become the nightmare you've been warning people about. The demon you claim we are."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"But if you face me at Godstone, if you bring your army and fight me openly, at least you'll die with honor. At least history will say you faced your enemy like a king, not a coward who hid behind children."
The political calculus was brutal but clear. Cynric could refuse and spend the rest of his shortened life looking over his shoulder, or he could accept and crush this madman publicly, proving once and for all that magic-users were no threat to organized military force.
Either way, Godric of Gryffindor died.
The question was whether Cynric died remembered as a king or a coward.
"Three days," Cynric said slowly. "Godstone crater."
"Three days," Godric agreed.
"And when we kill you, when your broken body proves that God favors the righteous, the hunts will intensify. Every magic-user in Britain will be rounded up and cleansed. Your death will doom your people."
"Perhaps." Godric turned to leave, then paused. "Or perhaps my death will cost you so dearly that the next king thinks twice before authorizing another hunt. Only one way to find out."
He raised both arms—and for the first time, the court saw that he carried two weapons.
Sword in left hand.
Wand in right.
Magic crackled along the blade. Flames danced from the wand tip.
"I'm done fighting by your rules, Your Majesty. I'm done restraining myself, done holding back, done trying to be better than your fear. You wanted a demon? You wanted a monster?"
His eyes blazed pure gold.
"You're going to get one."
He snapped his fingers. Every torch in the hall exploded into pillars of fire, reaching to the ceiling. The court screamed. Guards scrambled.
When the flames died a moment later, Godric was gone.
Three days.
King Cynric immediately sent ravens to every corner of his kingdom.
Assemble the full levy. Every knight, every man-at-arms, every soldier. Five thousand strong. Meet at Godstone in three days. We march to end the Lion.
To Malachar and the surviving Crimson Circle:
Your services are required. Double payment. Be at Godstone. Be ready.
To Bishop Wulfstan:
Bring your holy relics. Your prayers. Your faith. We face a demon.
The machine of war ground into motion.
Across Mercia, soldiers kissed their families goodbye. Knights polished armor. Smiths worked day and night on weapons.
Everyone had heard of Godstone. Everyone knew what had happened there—a village simply gone, erased from existence.
They blamed magic.
They didn't understand that they'd caused it.
And now they were marching to confront the one man who'd tried to prevent it.
The irony was lost on them.
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE VIGIL
Godstone Crater, Two Days Before the Battle
Godric arrived early.
The crater looked different in daylight. Vast. Empty. The scorched earth reflected sunlight like black glass. Ash still swirled in the wind, though it had been nearly two weeks since Eadric's death.
How long would the ash remain? Years? Centuries? A permanent scar on the land, marking where innocence had died?
Godric walked the perimeter slowly, his boots crunching on the glassy surface.
He could feel the residual magic. It soaked the ground, twisted into the earth itself. Eadric's power, torn from him and released in that final moment, had permanently altered this place.
Nothing would grow here. Not for generations.
Godric reached the center, where the scorched silhouette remained. It was fainter now, fading, but still visible if you knew where to look.
He knelt beside it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I was too late. Sorry I couldn't save you. Sorry I gave you hope when I should have taught you to run."
The wind was his only answer.
"But I'm going to make them pay, Eadric. Every single one of them who was here, who participated, who watched and did nothing—they're all going to die. Not because it will bring you back. Not because it will fix anything."
He placed his hand on the scorched ground.
"Because it's all I have left to give you. Vengeance. Justice. Call it whatever makes it palatable. But they hurt you, and I'm going to hurt them back."
He stood, drawing his wand.
For the next hour, he worked.
He planted runic stakes around the crater at precise intervals—fifty in total, forming a massive ritual circle. Each stake was inscribed with ancient symbols: fire, force, binding, confusion.
When triggered, they would turn the battlefield into a nightmare.
He carved circles of power into the glassy ground with his wand tip, channels for magic to flow, amplifiers for spells. He was turning the entire crater into a weapon.
Five thousand soldiers. Ten dark wizards (Malachar and the survivors of Godstone). Unknown numbers of priests and holy warriors.
Against one man.
The odds were impossible.
Which meant he needed every advantage.
As the sun set on his first day at Godstone, Godric sat in the center of the crater and meditated.
Not on battle. Not on tactics.
On Eadric. Anna. The dozens of other children he'd saved over the years.
On his village, burning when he was seventeen, his mother screaming as the Church called her a witch.
On the first time he'd fused sword and magic, the intoxicating rush of power, the horror of waking from battle-rage to find he'd killed indiscriminately.
On Morgana's warning: "The man who walks away from Godstone may not be the man I know."
On the fact that he didn't care.
He was tired of being the good man in a world that punished goodness. Tired of restraint while his enemies knew none. Tired of watching children die because he was too principled to become the monster they needed.
So he'd become the monster.
And when it was done, Morgana would end him.
It was a good plan. Clean. Simple.
As the stars emerged overhead, Godric lay back on the scorched earth where two hundred people had died, and waited for dawn.
And for war.
CHAPTER NINE: THE ARMY
Dawn, The Day of Battle
They came with the sunrise.
Godric heard them before he saw them—the thunder of five thousand feet marching in formation, the jingle of harnesses, the creak of wagon wheels, the low murmur of voices.
He stood in the center of the crater, sword in left hand, wand in right, and watched them come.
They filled the valley. Rank upon rank of soldiers in formation, cavalry on the flanks, archers massed in the rear. Siege equipment—ballistas and catapults—positioned on the high ground.
In the front rank, the surviving members of the Crimson Circle: Malachar, Scyld, Morwen, Theron, and six others. Ten dark wizards in total.
Behind them, Bishop Wulfstan in white robes, flanked by a dozen warrior-priests.
And in the heavily-guarded rear, on a white horse, wearing gilded armor that had probably never seen real combat: King Cynric.
A coward to the end.
The army spread out, surrounding the crater. Cutting off every escape route.
Not that Godric intended to run.
For several minutes, there was only silence. Five thousand pairs of eyes staring at one man. One man staring back, unafraid.
Finally, Malachar rode forward. He stopped at the crater's edge, his horse nervously sidestepping. Animals could sense the wrongness here, the death soaked into the ground.
"Godric." Malachar's voice carried across the distance. "Last chance. Surrender. We'll make it quick. You don't have to die in agony."
"Everyone dies in agony, Malachar," Godric called back. "The only question is whether it means something."
"Your death won't mean anything. You'll be forgotten. A cautionary tale about pride."
"Maybe." Godric shrugged. "Or maybe they'll remember the day one man made an army pay for murdering children. Only one way to find out."
"You're insane."
"I'm tired." Godric's voice was quiet but somehow still carried. "Tired of watching good people die while monsters prosper. Tired of restraint while you know none. Tired of being civilized to people who burned a thirteen-year-old boy alive."
He tapped his wand on the ground.
The runic stakes flared to life around the crater, glowing red.
"So I'm done being civilized. I'm done being the good man. Today, I'm going to show you what happens when you push someone past the point of caring about mercy."
He raised both weapons—sword and wand, steel and magic, warrior and wizard fused into one.
"Come on, then. All of you. Let's end this."
From the rear, King Cynric's voice rang out: "ARCHERS! KILL HIM!"
The sky went black with arrows.
---> Screen blacks out.
Post credits start rolling
Post credit scene.
FADE IN FROM BLACK
TEXT APPEARS:
"While Godric prepared for war, others heard the call..."
MONTAGE - QUICK CUTS:
CUT TO: A library, Northern Britain, Night
Rows of ancient scrolls and books. Candles everywhere.
A woman's hand traces text in an old manuscript. The page shows diagrams of protective wards and defensive enchantments.
Camera pans up to reveal:
ROWENA (38, dark hair with silver streaks, piercing grey eyes, wearing midnight blue robes)
She's surrounded by astronomical charts, magical theory texts, tactical maps.
ROWENA (to herself, intense)
Godstone. Two hundred dead. The Rite of Severance...
She stands abruptly, knocking over an inkwell. Doesn't notice.
ROWENA
He's going to get himself killed. One man against an army, no matter how skilled...
She moves to a window. In the distance, smoke rises—another village burning.
ROWENA (quiet, determined)
Unless he's not alone.
She begins rolling up maps, gathering books. Preparing to travel.
CUT TO: A healing hut, Welsh countryside, Dawn
Dried herbs hanging from rafters. A woman tends to a child with fever, her hand glowing with soft golden light.
HELGA (45, warm brown eyes, blonde-grey hair in braids, yellow robes, practical but kind face)
The child's fever breaks. The mother weeps with relief.
MOTHER
Bless you, Healer. Bless you.
HELGA (standing, weary)
Just doing what I can. Keep her warm. Plenty of water.
She steps outside. A refugee camp spreads before her—dozens of magical families, fleeing the hunts.
An old man approaches her.
OLD MAN
Healer Helga. Have you heard? The Lion challenges the King. At Godstone.
Helga's face tightens with worry.
HELGA
Godric. That fool. He's going to fight them all?
OLD MAN
So they say. Three days hence.
Helga looks at the refugee camp. Children playing. Families huddled together. All depending on her protection.
Then at the smoke on the horizon. More villages burning.
HELGA (to herself)
We can't keep running. We can't keep hiding.
She makes a decision.
HELGA (to her apprentice)
Take charge of the camp. I have to go.
APPRENTICE
Go where?
HELGA
To stop a brave man from dying stupidly.
CUT TO: A dark forest, Continental Europe, Night
A figure moves through shadows. Silent. Deadly.
A Church patrol passes—six armed men, hunting for "heretics."
CHURCH SOLDIER 1
The Bishop says there's a witch in these woods. We find her, we burn her.
CHURCH SOLDIER 2
I heard she killed three priests in Normandy.
CHURCH SOLDIER 1
All the more reason to—
He stops. His eyes glaze over.
All six soldiers freeze simultaneously, standing rigid like puppets.
From the shadows emerges:
SALAZAR (42, lean, sharp features, black hair, green eyes like a serpent, elegant dark green robes)
He walks between the frozen soldiers, examining them clinically.
SALAZAR (soft, dangerous voice)
Three priests? Please. It was seven.
He raises his ebony wand. The soldiers' eyes clear—they look terrified, unable to move.
SALAZAR
You hunt witches in these woods. But you should ask yourselves...
He leans close to one soldier.
SALAZAR
...who's really doing the hunting?
A hiss from the darkness. Six serpents slither from the undergrowth, moving toward the paralyzed soldiers.
Salazar turns away, walking back into shadow.
SALAZAR (over his shoulder)
Give my regards to your Bishop. Tell him Salazar sends his compliments.
He pauses.
SALAZAR
Oh wait. You won't be able to tell him anything.
The soldiers' screams are cut short.
Salazar continues walking. A raven lands on his shoulder, carrying a message.
He reads it. His expression changes—surprise, then interest.
SALAZAR (to the raven)
Godric of Gryffindor. The Lion. Challenging an entire army?
He smiles. It's not a kind smile.
SALAZAR
Now that sounds interesting. A man after my own heart.
He looks toward Britain.
SALAZAR
Perhaps it's time to see what all the fuss is about.
QUICK CUTS - MONTAGE:
Rowena on horseback, riding hard through forests, her blue robes streaming behind her.
Helga leading a small group of able-bodied refugees, all determined, all armed with wands.
Salazar boarding a ship to Britain, standing at the bow, watching the approaching coastline with calculating eyes.
All three of them, separately, looking toward the same direction—toward Godstone.
CUT TO: Godstone Crater, Dawn
Godric stands alone, center of the crater.
The army appears on the horizon—five thousand strong.
Godric draws both weapons: sword in left hand, wand in right.
His eyes blaze gold.
GODRIC (quiet, to himself)
For Eadric. For all of them.
The army advances.
Godric doesn't move.
Then—
SUDDEN CUT TO BLACK
TITLE CARD APPEARS:
THE BATTLE OF GODSTONE
CONTINUES IN
PART 2
Additional text fades in:
"Three founders traveled to witness a war.
They arrived to witness a legend."
FADE OUT
END OF PART 1