The air within the subterranean vault reeked of damp loam, cold iron, and old blood—the sort that seeps into stone and never leaves.
Far beneath the sunlit world of men, six cloaked figures sat in a silent arc upon crude benches carved from the living bedrock. They knew one another only by the rustle of coarse wool and the shape of their shadows.
A rasping voice emerged from the gloom on the far left, dry as bone rattling in an iron cage.
"The arrangements in the west are bought with silver and sealed in shadow. The high lords gorge on our coin, turning their eyes from the tithes and blood-offerings moving through their gates. Yet let us not wrap weakness in silk. Our grand work is choking on its own failures."
A low, guttural chant rippled through the darkness, an ancient prayer to the deep earth, though not a single face was revealed beneath the heavy hoods.
"The clash near the Scorched Ridge was a butcher's yard," the dry voice snarled. "When our cultists met the zealots of the Fire Temple, we mistook fanaticism for weakness. They did not fight like men; they threw themselves onto open blades to drag our brethren into the flames, screaming prayers to their false sun. Six of our anointed were boiled in their own armor before the rest could retreat into the thickets. The Old Gods were denied their harvest."
From the center of the arc, a voice of cold, polished steel cut through the gloom.
"The Church of the God of the Seven proves no less bloodthirsty. Their inquisitors ride with bare iron and holy water, doubling their patrols along the royal roads. They preach fire and rope from their marble pulpits, hunting our shadows and branding our rites an abomination to be put to the torch. Two of our vital supply arteries through the Great Valley were severed last fortnight—our sacred relics seized, our couriers left to rot upon the gibbet."
"Pressed between the pyre and the altar," whispered a third figure, whose hands—knobby, scarred, and stained with dried ritual ink—were folded tight within deep sleeves. "A dangerous path for those who serve the shadow."
Silence settled over the vault, heavy as a burial mound, until the third figure spoke again. The tone shifted from cold strategy to something foul and archaic.
"There is another matter. She lost her two sons."
The shadows stirred. None moved to utter a name; in this sanctuary, names were a poison that invited the blade and betrayed the blood.
"Was it the Church?" asked the voice of steel.
"No," replied the third, a hooded head shaking slowly in the dim candlelit gloom. "The mission collapsed in ruin. But we know what dark malice lives inside her. She is a creature born of venom and vengeance—she butchered a branch of her own bloodline simply because they failed to yield a male heir to continue the rites. Now her own flesh and bone feed the crows."
"She will drown half the continent in blood to soothe her grief," the dry voice muttered, a hand tightening until knuckles popped like snapping timber. "A rabid dog who threatens to drag our covenant into the light."
"Then keep a short leash upon her," commanded the middle figure, leaning forward until the amber flicker of a single tallow candle caught the edge of the hood. The voice dropped to a low, unforgiving whisper that cut through the weeping stone.
"We can bleed no more. Especially not the Blessed One—the vessel born to inherit the dark throne. They are coming, with fire in their eyes and steel in their hands."
The masked figure paused, the dark weight of doom hanging thick in the subterranean gloom.
"We will forge this world anew... when the Old Gods rise to drink the blood of the sun."
The heavy ironwood doors of the chamber groaned shut, sealing out the damp, salt-laden breeze from the sea. Thaddues sank into the high-backed velvet chair behind his desk, every muscle aching with bone-deep exhaustion.
His fingers brushed the cold band of Ravenclaw's Diadem. Silver runes glimmered beneath the mage-lights as he lifted the relic onto his brow.
Instantly, the storm within his mind quieted. His thoughts became calm, precise, and razor-sharp.
"Playing with fate is dangerous, Thaddues."
The voice was cool and solemn.
He opened his eyes to find Rowena Ravenclaw's spectral form standing in the center of the hall. Her sapphire robes shimmered like flowing water, and her gaze carried unmistakable disapproval. She had witnessed Thaddues unveil a mortal's destined end—a taboo that even she, a founder who had stood at the pinnacle of wizardry, regarded with profound caution
Leaning back, Thaddues released a slow breath.
"I am not playing," he replied evenly. "I simply refuse to let fate write my story."
His thoughts drifted to his first death—a senseless end claimed by a devastating earthquake in his past life. Being reborn into this world had also been fate. So had Lily's death, the cruel blow that shattered the last remnants of his modern optimism and forced him to see this realm for what it truly was: a world where strength alone decided who lived and who died.
Now he knew the game was far greater than he had imagined. Gods both old and new moved unseen, shaping the fates of mortals with terrifying ease. The world before him bore little resemblance to the one he remembered from the books.
Still,he refused to remain a pawn.
If the gods wished to wage a war of fate, he would answer with one of his own choosing.
Opening his eyes, he met Rowena's gaze.
"If you had known you would die after adopting Helena," he asked quietly, "would you still have taken her in?"
Silence lingered between them. Then a gentle smile softened her features.
"Yes," she whispered, her gaze drifting toward the windows as though she could still see a young girl running through the halls of Hogwarts. "Even if my death had been certain, I would not change a single moment."
She turned back to him, her expression resolute.
"Thaddues, I have reached my decision. I will teach you the advanced arts of the soul. Once my knowledge has been passed on, my remaining echo will finally fade. But the enemies you face demand more than I alone can offer. You will need the legacies of the other founders as well."
She stepped toward the window.
"Remember. Only when one of us is truly gone may another appear to guide you."
Thaddues nodded.
The memory of the ancient Valyrian god's overwhelming aura still burned within him. Surviving that encounter had been nothing short of a miracle.
If he could inherit the true mastery of the four founders, understanding the principles they had cultivated over a lifetime, he could forge power that was entirely his own.
"What were their masteries?" he asked. "What made the other three legends?"
Rowena turned toward him.
"Salazar's true strength lay within #####, while Godric's command over ##### was absolute—"
Thaddues blinked.
"Wait... what?"
She frowned.
"Are you deaf, boy? I said Salazar's mastery was #####, Godric's was #####, and Helga—"
His jaw nearly fell open.
Her lips moved clearly, yet every important word vanished into silence. To his modern mind, it looked exactly like an anime scene with every crucial line aggressively censored.
Then he heard the system inside his head.
--
"Host does not possess sufficient Authority to access this information."
--
Thaddues pinched the bridge of his nose.
Authority. Of course.
The system had once again locked essential knowledge behind another invisible gate.
"Never mind," he muttered, waving a hand. "I need sleep."
He removed the diadem. The perfect clarity faded, his thoughts returning to their usual clutter as Rowena's projection dissolved back into the artifact, disappearing mid-sentence.
He did not mind. It had likely spared him another lecture.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Leaning back, Thaddues stared at the ceiling.
"System," he called mentally. "Daily sign-in."
--
"Host has successfully signed in for the day. Congratulations on receiving: A standard set of High-Grade Healing Potions (6 Bottles)."
--
He looked at the six crimson-filled vials that materialized on his desk.
"Wonderful," he muttered. "More life insurance."
With a weary sigh, he slipped the potions into his coat and locked the diadem inside its leather case.
The road ahead promised blood, ancient gods, and forgotten legacies. But he was no longer a helpless spectator.
Nor did he intend to let fate decide how his story would end.
With a snap, Thaddues extinguished the torches on the chamber, allowing darkness to consume the room as sleep finally claimed him.
TBC
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