Erwin's interest piqued at the cryptic words. He had a weakness for these elaborate riddles, the kind that hinted at deeper secrets. Cassandra stepped aside without a word, and Erwin strode into the room.
A wave of vertigo hit him instantly. When it cleared, he stood in a vast chamber lined with towering shelves. Crystal orbs gleamed faintly on every surface, their surfaces swirling with faint mists. Something about the place tugged at his memory—it was eerily like the Hall of Prophecy in the Department of Mysteries.
What in Merlin's name was this?
Cassandra blinked in confusion from the threshold. She'd watched Erwin vanish the moment he crossed the doorway. Heart racing, she hurried after him. The room looked unchanged: dusty bookshelves, cluttered desks, the familiar musty scent of aged parchment. But Erwin was gone.
Her brow furrowed. Something was wrong, but she couldn't pinpoint it. Shaking off the unease, she scanned the shadows, calling his name softly. No response.
Meanwhile, Erwin remained utterly composed. Whether this was the real Department or some clever illusion, escape was no issue if he wished it. He wandered the aisles at his leisure, plucking orbs from the shelves to peer inside. Their contents were a jumbled mess—fragmented prophecies, terse notes, disjointed phrases that seemed like afterthoughts scribbled in haste. No rhyme or reason, just chaos.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Fascinating. Another scavenger hunt? Founder Rowena, this isn't one of your old tricks, is it?"
As if summoned, a spectral figure materialized from his forehead—Rowena Ravenclaw's spirit, her ethereal form shimmering like moonlight on water. She glanced around, eyes widening. "Well now, young Erwin, where exactly have you wandered into?"
"No clue," he replied with a shrug. "Feels like a forgotten wing of the Ministry. Anything off about it to you?"
She tilted her head, considering. "Hard to say. Poke around a bit; I'll scout ahead and confirm a hunch."
Erwin nodded, and she drifted off into the gloom. He resumed his examination, methodically sorting the orbs. Prophecies in one pile, single sentences in another, the rest—mundane scribbles—tucked aside. To crack this, he needed to understand the puzzle's pieces.
Time blurred as he worked. Rowena returned, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You might have bitten off more than you can chew this time, lad. There's a whisper of divine power lingering here—set by a god, or someone wielding a fragment of it. Their craft rivals mine, I'd wager."
Erwin met her gaze calmly. "I figured as much."
She blinked. "You sensed it already?"
"The aura's subtle, but it stands apart from magic—purer, more potent. By elimination, what else could it be?"
Rowena eyed him dubiously but let it drop. "Fair enough. So, what's your play?"
He grinned. "We play the game. Not my first riddle—remember the one you walked me through?"
With a chuckle, she dissolved into starlight and retreated to the diadem on his brow, her glow brighter in the dimness. Erwin pressed on, undeterred, his focus sharpening on the orb in his hand.
From within the diadem, Rowena watched him closely, her expression thoughtful. But his steady demeanor eased her suspicions. With a mental yawn, she settled into slumber.
Erwin noted her withdrawal, a flicker of calculation in his eyes before it vanished. He stroked his chin, pondering. In puzzles like this, clues hid amid the noise. But with hundreds of orbs, sifting through was no small task. Patience, though—that he had in spades. These mysteries were his guilty pleasure.
He tapped an orb with his wand, drawing out a shimmering thread of text. With a flick, he etched it onto the stone floor. One by one, he imprinted them all, the chamber floor soon covered in glowing script.
Patterns emerged almost immediately. His eyes lit up. He waved his wand, the words shifting like puzzle pieces, purging duplicates. A handful remained: fragmented phrases, teasing at meaning.
Another gesture, and they realigned into coherence. Erwin read aloud, voice low.
"Between light and shadow, in the dance of white and black."
"Ancient and enigmatic forces stir anew; they shall finish what once eluded them."
"With the blood of kings as the spark, and the void as their forge, they will forge the ambitions of the bold."
"Gods drenched in crimson, all souls mere pieces on the board; rivers of blood will carve the earth."
"This war knows no mercy; none may stand apart."
"Yet one alone can halt the tide—he who emerges from the weave of light and shadow, born in the flux of black and white."
"Destiny's hand, and heaven's grace. In the hour of reckoning, his verdict shall shape the world's thread!"
"Bearing nobility's weight, amid light's embrace and darkness' grasp, his path will sway every fate!"
The final words ignited, rising in a golden swirl. An orb descended from the shelf, absorbing the script in a burst of light. Then, the glow coalesced into a humanoid form.
A woman in flowing robes hovered above it, her features strikingly like Cassandra's—seventy percent a match, but matured, regal. She opened illusory eyes, beams of light dancing within, and fixed them on Erwin.
"At last," she murmured, her voice echoing like wind through ancient halls. "I have awaited your arrival."
...
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