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Harry Potter and Shattered Ring Chapter 18 (The Golden and the Grafted)
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 22:12:18 +0000 UTCThe throne room of Stormveil Castle reeked of iron and decay. Torchlight wavered across stone walls stained with centuries of smoke, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Seated upon a throne fashioned from fused weapons and bone, Godrick the Grafted leaned forward, his mismatched eyes gleaming with malice. His body—if one could still call it that—was a horrific patchwork of limbs stolen from others: arms of varying sizes jutted from his shoulders and torso like branches from a diseased tree.
Before him knelt seven prisoners chained to the floor with heavy iron shackles. Blood spattered their clothes, dripping from fresh wounds onto the flagstones.
"Once more, I shall ask thee," Godrick's voice boomed through the chamber, a strange mix of cultured diction and barely contained fury. "This Tarnished who defeated Margit the Fell—what manner of warrior be he? What powers doth he possess that could fell my gatekeeper?"
Captain Artan, his weathered face swollen from a beating, spat blood onto the floor. Though his left eye was swollen shut, the right one blazed with defiance. His Stormveil armor had been stripped away, leaving only a tattered undershirt that revealed muscled arms scarred from decades of battle.
"I've told you three times already," Artan growled. "He's just a boy with a sword."
"Thou LIEST!" Godrick roared, surging to his feet. He descended the dais with surprising speed for such an ungainly creature, his grafted limbs clicking and scraping against the stone. "No mere stripling could best Margit! Thou shalt speak truth, or I shall tear it from thy worthless throat!"
Beside Artan, Nepheli Loux struggled against her bonds, her wild hair matted with blood. Her attempts to break free during capture had earned her the worst beating; purple bruises blossomed across her face, and one arm hung at an unnatural angle. Still, her eyes burned with fury, watching Godrick's every move like a hawk tracking prey.
Roderika knelt nearby, her blonde hair hanging in dirty tangles around her pale face. Unlike the others, her wounds were less visible—Godrick's men had been ordered to keep her unmarked. Her fingers trembled as she clasped them in silent prayer, tears tracking clean lines down her dirt-smudged cheeks.
The five soldiers of Artan's company maintained rigid postures despite their injuries, following their captain's example.
Godrick circled Artan. "Mine patience waneth thin, Captain of the Outer Gate. Tell me what you know?"
Artan chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. "If Margit couldn't stop him, what makes you think your shambling abominations will fare any better?"
Godrick's face contorted with rage. He lunged forward, seizing Artan by the throat with one of his original hands, lifting the burly man as if he weighed nothing. The captain's feet dangled above the stone floor as he gasped for air.
"Thou art nothing but a captain of the outer gate," Godrick snarled, his face inches from Artan's. "A worn hound past his prime. Perhaps thy worth lies not in thy mind but in thy limbs." His voice dropped to a silky purr. "I shall render thee useful at last. Thy arms and legs shall grace the body of a spider—a fitting vessel. And thy head? Perhaps mounted upon another, that I might question thee for eternity."
Despite the hand crushing his windpipe, Artan managed a wheezing laugh. "Is that the best you can do? Threaten to chop me up like all the others?" He locked eyes with Godrick, contempt evident even as his face purpled. "Without your stolen parts, you'd be nothing. Just a weak little lord playing at power."
A collective gasp rippled through the prisoners. Even Nepheli's eyes widened at Artan's audacity.
Godrick's grip tightened, his many other arms twitching with anticipation. "Thou darest mock me? I am the Lord of Stormveil! I am the golden lineage made flesh!"
"You're a thief," Artan rasped, voice barely audible now. "Stealing strength instead of earning it. The boy who's coming for you? He earned every bit of his power."
"The captain's gone mad."
"No," the other soldier whispered back. "He's buying time."
Godrick howled with fury, hurling Artan to the floor. The captain landed hard, gasping as air flooded back into his lungs. He rolled onto his side, coughing, but his eyes showed no fear.
Godrick's mismatched eyes shifted from Captain Artan to Roderika, noting the violent trembling of her slender shoulders. Unlike the soldiers with their defiant glares and Nepheli with her warrior's composure, the young woman seemed barely able to keep from collapsing entirely. Her pale fingers twisted anxiously in the fabric of her red hood, now stained with dirt and tears.
"Ah," Godrick crooned, his voice suddenly silken as he approached her. "The Spirit Trainer. How fortunate we are to have one so... gifted among us." His hand with seven fingers holding a sword retreated back, as if he were trying to appear less threatening. Several of his grafted arms folded behind his back in a grotesque pantomime of courtesy.
Roderika flinched as Godrick crouched before her, bringing his face level with hers. Despite his attempt at gentleness, nothing could disguise the madness dancing in his eyes.
"Sweet child," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek with a finger that seemed almost normal until one noticed the different skin tone where it had been attached. "Surely thou art more reasonable than thy stubborn companions. Tell me of this Tarnished who challenged my realm. His name, his strengths, his weaknesses."
Roderika's eyes darted toward Captain Artan, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"I..." Her voice came out as barely a whisper. "I don't know much about him."
Godrick's false pleasantness slipped for just a moment, his lips tightening. "Come now, thy falsehoods ill become thee. I know thou hast aided this interloper. The Spirit Bell thou gavest him—a precious gift indeed." He tilted his head, studying her like a curious insect. "Such a fair visage thou possessest. 'Twould make a splendid addition to my collection."
His hand moved from her cheek to her hair, stroking it with disturbing tenderness. "Perhaps here," he mused, gesturing to his own back with another arm, "where thy golden tresses might cascade down my spine. A beautiful warning to all who dare approach me from behind."
Roderika's composure cracked. "Please," she sobbed, tears flowing freely now. "Please don't. I beg you..."
"Mercy?" Godrick's laugh was like glass breaking. "Thy friends begged prettily too, did they not? Such sweet sounds they made—until I separated their limbs from their bodies." He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Wouldst thou like to see them again? I have preserved their heads most carefully."
Roderika's sobs intensified, her entire body shaking with terror. Behind her, Nepheli strained against her chains, her face contorted with impotent rage.
"Enough!" Artan shouted, only to receive a brutal kick from one of the guards that left him gasping on the floor.
Godrick rose to his full height, looking down at Roderika with calculated consideration. "Perhaps we might reach an accord," he said, his voice reasonable now, as if discussing a minor trade negotiation. "Thy gift for Spirit Summoning is rare indeed. Teach my soldiers thy craft—show them how to command the spirits of the fallen—and I shall grant thee clemency."
He gestured grandly around the room. "Indeed, I shall extend my generosity to thy worthless friends as well. Freedom for all, in exchange for thy cooperation."
Roderika's sobs quieted as she processed his words. Her red-rimmed eyes lifted to his face, searching for deceit.
"You would... let them go? All of them?"
"Upon my honor as a lord," Godrick said, placing his original hand over what approximated his heart.
Roderika's gaze swept across her companions. Artan, still struggling to breathe after the guard's kick. Nepheli, her arm bent at that terrible angle. The five soldiers, beaten but unbowed. Would Harry want her to save them, even at the cost of strengthening Godrick's army?
A memory surfaced—Harry's face, illuminated by campfire light, his green eyes intense behind those strange round glasses as he gripped her trembling hands in his.
"I will never let anything bad happen to you again," he had promised. "I can't save your friends, but I can protect you."
The memory of his voice, steady and sure, wrapped around her like a shield.
Roderika straightened her back, her tears drying on her cheeks. "No," she said, her voice soft but clear.
Godrick's expression darkened. "What didst thou say?"
"I said no." Stronger now, meeting his gaze. "Harry will come for us. And when he does, he'll kill you."
A flash of surprise crossed Godrick's face. "Harry? The Tarnished hath a name, then." He rolled the word around in his mouth as if tasting it, then spat it out with contempt. "A common name for a common interloper."
His momentary composure shattered, revealing the capricious madman beneath. "Thou thinkest thy Tarnished champion lives still? Fool! The Crucible Knight cast him into the abyss. Nothing returns from such depths!"
He towered over her, his grafted limbs twitching with rage. "Thou hast made thy choice, Spirit Trainer. Now watch as I demonstrate the price of defiance."
Roderika trembled but did not look away. Harry had taught her that much, at least—that even when terrified, one could still choose courage.
"So be it!" he snarled, raising his true hand. "Let us see how steadfast thy resolve remains when confronted with the consequences of thy stubbornness!"
He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing like a whip crack through the throne room. Two sentries moved to the massive oak doors at the end of the hall, throwing them open.
The clink of heavy chains preceded the arrival of Godrick's horrors. Two soldiers entered first, their faces as white as ghosts; they appeared more like corpses given life as they strained against thick iron chains. Behind them, padding on massive paws that clicked against the stone floor, came the wolves.
Each stood taller than a man, with bodies four times the size of natural wolves, their fur matted and diseased in patches where stitches showed the crude work of their creation. Their paws had been fitted with metal gloves, from which protruded long, wickedly curved blades that scraped across the flagstones with each step.
But it was their heads—dear gods, their heads—that drew gasps of horror from even the hardened soldiers among the prisoners. On either side of each wolf's natural head, human faces had been grafted onto the thick necks. Four heads in total, two for each beast, their expressions frozen in various states of anguish, eyes blinking and rolling independently of the wolf's savage gaze.
The moment Roderika saw them, she let out a scream that seemed to tear from the depths of her soul.
"NO! NO!" She thrashed against her chains, tears streaming down her face. "Please, no, not them!"
Godrick's laughter rolled through the chamber like poisoned honey. "Dost thou recognize thy companions, Spirit Trainer? See how I have honored them with new purpose."
The wolves were brought to a halt before the prisoners, their handlers keeping the chains taut. The human heads moved independently of the wolf bodies, their eyes darting around in confusion and pain, lips working soundlessly in most cases.
"Look upon them," Godrick commanded, seizing Roderika's chin with bruising force, forcing her face upward. "LOOK!"
She sobbed, unable to close her eyes with Godrick's fingers digging into her cheeks. The wolf on the left snarled, its wolf mouth dripping saliva, while the human head on its right side—a young man with short blonde hair—focused suddenly on Roderika.
The head's eyes widened in recognition. Its lips trembled, and then, in a voice like wood being dragged over stone, it spoke.
"Roderika... why... why did you abandon us?"
The words seemed to shatter something in Roderika. "Addan," she whispered, the name breaking in the middle. "Oh, Addan, I'm so sorry..."
Her gaze shifted to the other heads—a red-haired woman on the left side of the first wolf, then a balding man and a young boy barely in his teens on the second beast.
"Christy... Danel... little Finn," she named them, each word a fresh wound. "I am So Sorry I ran..."
Godrick released her chin, stepping back to admire his handiwork as Roderika collapsed forward as far as her chains would allow, wracked with sobs that seemed to convulse her entire body.
"See how they live still," Godrick said, his voice dripping with false compassion. "Not as they were, perhaps, but they endure. Is that not preferable to the oblivion of true death?" He circled the wolves, running a possessive hand over their fur. "They serve me now, as all things in Stormveil must."
The head named Addan continued to stare at Roderika, tears leaking from its eyes. "You left us... left us to this fate..."
"Enough sentimentality," Godrick interrupted, his momentary pleasure cooling into calculation once more. "The choice stands before thee, Spirit Trainer. Teach my armies the art of Spirit Summoning, and I shall grant you Freedom."
He gestured toward Artan, Nepheli, and the other soldiers. "Thy new companions may go free as well. Or refuse me again, and join the collection I am assembling. Perhaps thy face might complement young Addan's on my next creation."
Across the room, Nepheli Loux had been working silently during this entire display. Blood seeped from her wrists where the manacles had cut into her skin, but the pain seemed irrelevant to her. With each subtle movement, she tested the strength of her chains, searching for weakness. Her broken arm hung useless, but her eyes burned with determination as she watched Godrick toy with Roderika.
"Choose now," Godrick demanded, looming over Roderika's huddled form. "Thy decision shall determine many fates this day."
Before Roderika could answer, heavy footsteps echoed through the hall, a rhythmic metallic thudding that silenced even the wolves' growls. All eyes turned toward the grand entrance, where a towering figure appeared, silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor.
The Crucible Knight Ordovis strode into the chamber with the confidence of one who feared nothing in this world. His bronze armor gleamed, every inch of it curved and shaped to resemble scales and feathers. His greatshield was strapped to his back, but his sword was drawn, the massive blade trailing sparks where it occasionally grazed the stone floor.
The horned helm concealed his face entirely, giving no hint of expression, but his posture radiated tension. He walked past the wolves without a glance, as if they were unworthy of his notice, and came to a halt before Godrick.
"What is the meaning of this interruption?" Godrick demanded, his momentary fear at the knight's unexpected arrival quickly masked by indignation. "Canst thou not see I am occupied with matters of import?"
Ordovis stood motionless for a moment, his helm tilted slightly as he regarded the grafted lord. When he spoke, his voice resonated from within the bronze helmet, deep and implacable as the earth itself.
"The Tarnished lives still."
Four simple words, yet they crashed through the room like a thunderbolt. Among the prisoners, heads snapped up. Nepheli's eyes widened, a fierce grin splitting her bloodied lips. Captain Artan let out a bark of triumphant laughter. Even Roderika, moments ago lost in despair, lifted her tear-stained face with sudden hope.
Godrick's reaction was immediate and volcanic. All pretense of lordly composure abandoned.
"WHAT?" he roared, his many arms flailing in agitation. "Thou claimed he fell into the abyss! None survive such a fate!"
Ordovis remained unmoved by Godrick's outburst, standing like a bronze statue amid the chaos. "I witnessed his fall myself. By all rights, he should have perished." The knight's helm turned slightly, surveying the chamber. "Yet even now, he cuts through thy soldiers like wheat before a scythe. He approaches the second inner gate."
Godrick's laughter was shrill, tinged with disbelief. "Let him come! A score of my finest creations guard that passage. They shall rend him limb from limb!"
"I would not place such faith in thy abominations," Ordovis replied, his tone flat. "This Tarnished has... changed."
"Changed?" Godrick's many fingers twitched with impatience. "Speak plainly, knight!"
Ordovis's helm tilted slightly, as if considering how much to reveal. "He wields flames that should not be his to command. Black flames."
A hushed silence fell over the chamber. Even Godrick seemed momentarily stunned.
"Black flames?" he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "That cannot be. Only those of the Godskin possess such power."
"I know what I witnessed," Ordovis stated firmly. "Grey flames that darken to black. They consume everything they touch. Men who challenged him were reduced to ash in moments."
The prisoners exchanged confused glances, but Roderika's face lit with something like wonder. "Harry," she whispered, the name a prayer on her lips.
"Impossible," Godrick finally said, though his voice had lost some of its conviction. "No common Tarnished could—"
"He is no common Tarnished," Ordovis interrupted. "The fall should have killed him. Instead, he emerged stronger. Whatever waits in that abyss... it changed him."
Among the prisoners, Captain Artan smiled grimly. "Told you he was special."
Godrick paced the dais, his grafted limbs twitching with agitation. His eyes darted between Ordovis and the prisoners, calculations visibly racing behind them. Finally, he whirled to face the knight.
"Bring him to me—alive. If what thou sayest is true, such power must not go to waste."
"As tinder for thy collection?" Ordovis's voice carried a note of disdain.
"As the crowning glory of my ascension!" Godrick's eyes gleamed with mad fervor. "Imagine such flames—black flames of the Godskin themselves—grafted to my flesh! I shall transcend even the Demigods!"
Ordovis bowed stiffly, the gesture more mockery than respect. "As you command."
As the knight turned to leave, Godrick called after him. "Do not fail me again, Crucible Knight. Even thou art not beyond my reach."
Ordovis paused at the doorway, looking back over his armored shoulder. "We shall see." Then he was gone, bronze armor glinting as he vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
Godrick returned to his throne, a slow smile spreading across his face as he considered the possibilities. His eyes swept over the prisoners, lingering on Roderika.
"It seems thy Harry comes to us after all," he said, his voice silken with anticipation. "How generous of him to deliver such power directly into my hands."
Nepheli strained against her chains, blood seeping afresh from her raw wrists. "You'll regret the day you ever heard his name," she growled through clenched teeth.
Godrick merely laughed, settling back into his throne as he gestured for the wolf abominations to be moved closer to Roderika.
"We shall see who regrets what before this day ends," he said, his many fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the armrests. "We shall see."
Harry
Blood slicked the stone beneath Harry's boots as he advanced through Stormveil's winding corridors. The sword in his hand—the Lordsworn's Greatsword that Captain Artan had given him.
Ahead, the corridor widened into a small courtyard. Six of Godrick's soldiers waited there, arranged in a defensive formation. Unlike the regular Stormveil guards Harry had encountered outside, these were clearly Godrick's prized creations—men with limbs grafted haphazardly to their bodies. One had four arms ending in rusted blades; another's torso sprouted what looked like a wolf's head, its jaws snapping mindlessly.
Harry paused at the threshold, his green eyes taking in the scene. He felt different since emerging from the abyss beneath the castle—stronger, yes, but also somehow hollowed out, as if part of him had been scraped away and replaced with something ancient and cold.
"Last chance," he called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Stand down and walk away. I'm only here for Godrick and my friends."
The soldier with the wolf's head grafted to his chest let out a barking laugh. "The whelp thinks he can bargain!" He spat on the ground, a glob of phlegm landing between them. "Lord Godrick will have your limbs for his collection, boy."
Harry sighed, rolling his shoulders. He remembered Melina's voice in his ear during those long training sessions in the Limgrave wilds: "Grace favors the decisive. Hesitation invites death."
"Fine," Harry said, raising his free hand. "Have it your way."
Golden light pooled in his palm, then shot skyward in a blinding column. Three rings of light—perfect golden circles—materialized above his head, spinning lazily.
The soldiers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. Then, with a roar, they charged.
Harry flicked his wrist, and one of the golden rings shot forward, slicing through the air. It struck the first soldier's shield with such force that the metal buckled inward, crushing the arm behind it. The man screamed, dropping to his knees.
Two more rushed him from the sides. Harry pivoted, swinging his greatsword in a wide arc that caught one across the chest, shearing through leather and flesh alike. The soldier staggered back, clutching at the gaping wound.
The other lunged with a spear, aiming for Harry's gut. Harry twisted, the spear grazing his side, drawing a thin line of blood. He hissed at the sting but didn't falter. Instead, he grabbed the shaft of the spear with his free hand and channeled another spell.
"Glaciem Saxum," he muttered, the Latin incantation from his Hogwarts training feeling strange on his tongue after weeks of Melina's grace magic. Ice crystallized along the wooden shaft, spreading rapidly to the soldier's hands. The man shrieked as his flesh froze solid, fingers shattering like glass when he tried to release the weapon.
Harry yanked the spear free and drove it backward, impaling its owner through the chest. He didn't wait to see the man fall. Already the soldier with the wolf-head was closing in, its jaws gnashing hungrily.
"The grace within you can take many forms. Golden light to pierce, to shield, to heal. Find the shape that serves your need." Melina had said.
Harry released his sword, letting it hang from the leather strap on his wrist, and brought both hands together. Golden light blazed between his palms, coalescing into a pulsing sphere. With a shout, he thrust it forward. The ball of light struck the wolf-headed soldier square in the chest, exploding on impact. The grafted head let out one final howl as both it and its host were reduced to smoking fragments.
Three down, three to go. Harry could feel sweat trickling down his spine, his breath coming in short bursts.
The remaining soldiers spread out, circling him warily now. One carried a massive hammer that looked too heavy for any normal man to wield. Another wielded dual shortswords, his movements unnaturally quick thanks to the extra pair of legs grafted to his abdomen. The third hung back, nocking an arrow to a curved bow.
"You're making a mistake," Harry tried again, readying his sword. "Godrick isn't worth dying for."
"Our lives belong to Lord Godrick," the hammer-wielder growled. "As yours soon will."
The archer loosed his arrow. Harry's remaining golden ring intercepted it mid-flight, slicing it neatly in two. But the shot was merely a distraction. The dual-wielder rushed forward with inhuman speed, blades flashing.
Harry parried the first strike, steel ringing against steel, but the second blade slipped past his guard, cutting a shallow line across his chest. He staggered back.
The hammer-wielder charged in, swinging his massive weapon. Harry ducked under it, feeling the air displace above his head. He thrust upward with his sword, catching the man under the ribs. Blood gushed, hot and sticky over Harry's hands, but the soldier didn't fall. Instead, he grabbed Harry's wrist with a strength that threatened to crush bone.
Pain lanced up Harry's arm. His vision swam. "No," he gasped. "I can't fail them. Not now."
Something stirred in his chest—not the warm glow of grace magic, but something colder, sharper. The Cursemark of Death burned beneath his armor, sending icy fire through his veins. Grey flames erupted from his captured hand, spreading rapidly up the soldier's arm.
The man screamed, releasing Harry and stumbling backward. The flames didn't burn like normal fire; they seemed to consume, to devour. Flesh blackened and crumbled to ash beneath them, revealing bone that quickly followed suit. Within seconds, the hammer-wielder was nothing but dust scattered across the courtyard stones.
Harry stared at his hand in shock. The grey flames didn't hurt him, but they danced across his skin with hungry intensity, darkening at the edges to a deep, midnight black.
"What the hell?" the dual-wielder breathed, backing away. "What are you?"
Harry didn't answer. Instead, he reached out with his flame-wreathed hand and made a grasping motion. The fire leapt from his fingers, arcing through the air to engulf the soldier. Another scream, another body reduced to ash.
The archer turned to flee, dropping his bow in panic. Harry flicked his wrist, and a tendril of grey flame shot out like a whip, curling around the man's ankle. One sharp pull, and the soldier crashed to the ground, the flames already climbing up his leg, devouring everything they touched.
Silence fell over the courtyard as the runes of the six soldiers came to Harry, spreading warmth through his chest and making him a little stronger. Harry stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, grey flames still licking at his fingertips. He stared at the ash that had been living men moments before, and a wave of nausea swept through him.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered to the empty air.
He thought of Melina's face, her quiet confidence in him. Of Roderika's gentle smile when she'd given him the Spirit Bell. Of Captain Artan's gruff approval when he'd finally mastered a particularly difficult sword technique. Of Nepheli's fierce loyalty.
They were counting on him. Whatever was happening to him, whatever power the Cursemark had awakened, he would use it to save them. He had to.
Harry continued forward, his pace quickening. The second inner gate loomed ahead—a massive iron portcullis blocking the path to the central keep. Two guards stood watch, but upon seeing him approach—sword in one hand, black flames dancing along the other—they dropped their weapons and fled.
Smart, Harry thought grimly as he saw a Site of Grace. He placed his hand near it, and with a burst of golden light, it was activated.
"That should help," he murmured, turning toward the gate mechanism.
Before he could take another step, the air shimmered with blue light—not the cold blue of glintstone magic, but a warmer, more familiar azure that coalesced into Melina's slender form.
"Harry," she breathed, her single visible eye widening. That eye—violet and clear—filled with such naked relief that Harry felt his chest tighten. "You live."
Her voice broke on the last word, a vulnerability he'd never heard from her before. In all their time together, Melina had been his guide, his teacher, a pillar of calm wisdom. Now, she looked at him as if he were a miracle.
"Melina!"
Without thinking, Harry stepped forward and pulled her into a fierce embrace. For a heartbeat, she stiffened in surprise—then her arms encircled his waist, fingers clutching the back of his armor with desperate strength. He could feel her trembling against him, her face pressed to his shoulder.
"I thought you lost," she murmured, her voice muffled against his armor. "When Ordovis cast you into the abyss... I searched. I called to you through grace, but there was nothing. Only darkness." Her grip tightened. "I feared I'd sent you to your death."
Harry held her closer, suddenly aware of how small she felt in his arms, how fragile despite all her power and knowledge. It struck him that while he'd been fighting his way back, she'd been grieving, believing him gone forever.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I tried to find a way to let you know I was alive, but—"
"It doesn't matter now," she interrupted, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Her visible eye searched his, glistening with unshed tears. "You're here. That's what matters."
Before Harry could respond, Melina rose slightly on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek—soft and warm.
When she pulled away, a faint blush colored her pale cheeks. Harry felt heat rising in his own face, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the recent battle.
"I..." Melina began, then seemed to remember herself. She stepped back, composing her features, though her blush remained. "Forgive me. The joy of finding you alive overwhelmed my usual restraint."
Harry shook his head, a small smile curving his lips despite the dire circumstances. "Nothing to forgive," he said softly. Then, remembering why they were there, his expression sobered. "Melina, where are they? Roderika, Artan, Nepheli—are they alive?"
Melina nodded, her expression grave. "In the throne room. Godrick keeps them as hostages and... entertainment." Her lip curled in disgust. "He's there too, with his most loyal guards and some of his fouler creations."
Harry's grip tightened on his sword. "Then that's where I'm going."
"Harry." Melina caught his arm, her touch feather-light. "Whatever power you've found, whatever strength you now possess—Godrick will seek to claim it for himself. He is mad with the desire for power, any power."
Harry met her gaze. "Let him try."
The grey flames flickered briefly to black around his clenched fist, and Melina's eye widened slightly. But she nodded, releasing his arm.
"I'll guide you," she said, gesturing toward a side passage. "There's a faster way to the throne room. One Godrick's sentries don't know about."
Harry followed her, the Cursemark pulsing beneath his armor like a second heartbeat. He wasn't sure what he was becoming, but for now, it didn't matter. His friends needed him, and Godrick would pay for every moment of suffering he'd caused them.
That was enough.
Melina's shortcut led them through a narrow servants' passage, up a spiraling staircase worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and finally to a small balcony overlooking what Harry recognized as the inner gatehouse. She faded into blue light with a whispered "Be careful" as Harry crouched low, surveying the scene below.
The inner gate was a bottleneck designed to trap attackers—a killing ground. A massive portcullis of black iron blocked the way forward, its spikes gleaming wickedly in the torchlight. The chamber itself was wide and rectangular, with high ceilings supported by stone arches. Braziers blazed along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the flagstones.
And there were enemies—many enemies. Harry counted at least a dozen grafted soldiers patrolling in tight formation. But it was the figure at the center of the room that made his blood run cold.
Standing twice as tall as the soldiers around him was what Harry could only describe as a grafted knight. His armor was a patchwork of mismatched plates, and where a helmet should have been, three human heads had been fused together, their mouths stretched in silent screams. Six arms sprouted from his torso, each wielding a different weapon—axe, sword, mace, spear, dagger, and what looked like a severed human arm sharpened to a point.
Harry exhaled slowly, controlling his breathing the way Artan had taught him during their training sessions. Rushing in would be suicide. He needed a plan.
The balcony gave him height advantage, but the drop was considerable—at least fifteen feet. If he jumped down, he'd be surrounded before he could recover. His eyes darted around the chamber, noting the clusters of soldiers, the position of the braziers, the hanging tapestries that could provide brief cover.
"Think, Potter," he muttered. "What would Hermione do?"
The answer came to him almost immediately: create a diversion, then strike from an unexpected angle. He smiled grimly, reaching for the spirit-calling bell Roderika had given him. Its soft chime was barely audible as he summoned the spectral wolves—three ghostly beasts that materialized beside him, their glowing eyes fixed on him expectantly.
"Down there," Harry whispered, pointing toward the far side of the chamber. "Attack and draw them away from the gate."
The wolves leapt from the balcony, silent as moonlight until they hit the ground. Then they howled—a chilling. The soldiers whirled in confusion as the spirit wolves tore into their ranks from behind.
"Intruders!" someone shouted. "The west side!"
The grafted knight turned ponderously, his mismatched heads swiveling independently. "Find them!" he roared, his voice a horrific blend of three different timbres. "Bring me their limbs!"
As the soldiers rushed toward the wolves, Harry closed his eyes. Golden light bloomed from his chest, flowing down his arms to pool in his cupped hands. With careful precision, he shaped the light, splitting it again and again until fifty-six small golden spheres orbited around him, each no larger than a Snitch.
"Form and function," he murmured, recalling Melina's lesson. "The grace bends to your will, but only if your will is clear."
With a gesture, the spheres began to coalesce, merging into five golden discs with edges that gleamed like razor wire. They rotated around him. Harry backed up several paces, then sprinted toward the edge of the balcony. He leapt, the golden discs following his trajectory like loyal hounds.
He landed in a crouch behind three soldiers who had hung back near the gate. Before they could even register his presence, Harry unsheathed the Lordsworn's Greatsword in one fluid motion and swung it in a wide, horizontal arc. The blade caught all three at once, slicing through armor and flesh with ease. They collapsed, dead before they hit the ground.
The remaining soldiers, alerted by the sound, began to turn from the spirit wolves. Harry didn't give them time. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the golden discs flying through the air, each one a whirling instrument of death. They cut through the grafted soldiers like a hot knife through butter, limbs and heads falling as the discs passed through ranks with unerring precision.
Within seconds, the chamber floor was littered with bodies, blood pooling between the flagstones. Only the grafted knight captain remained, his three heads turning in shock as he witnessed the annihilation of his entire squadron. The discs curved back toward Harry, but as they neared the knight, he dropped into a surprisingly agile roll. The discs sailed over him, their killing edges missing by inches before they dissipated into motes of golden light.
"Tarnished filth!" the captain bellowed, all three mouths moving in synchronization. "Your head will adorn my collection!"
The captain charged, six arms wielding six weapons in a whirlwind of steel. Harry side-stepped the first swing, ducked under the second, and parried the third with his blade. The impact sent vibrations up his arm, nearly numbing his fingers. This wouldn't be as easy as the soldiers.
"You're fast for a dead man," the center head snarled, yellowed teeth bared in hatred.
"And you're slow for someone with six arms," Harry retorted, backing away to create space.
The knight laughed, a disturbing sound from three throats at once. "Lord Godrick has been most generous with his gifts. Soon your limbs will join our collection!"
Harry channeled his focus into his sword, drawing on the Carian magic. Blue light flowed along the blade, but this time, the blade didn't become longer.
"Pretty light won't save you, boy," the left head growled.
The captain lunged again, all six weapons striking from different angles. Harry spun and dodged, looking not for a chance to attack but for patterns in the assault. Each arm moved independently, yet there was a rhythm to their attacks, a sequence he could predict if he watched closely enough.
"Standing still won't do you any favors," Harry said, feinting to the right before rolling left. "All those extra bits slowing you down?"
The taunt worked. The captain roared in fury, overextending as he brought all six weapons down in a coordinated strike. Harry had been waiting for precisely this opening. With a single swing, he pivoted on his heel and swept his glowing blade in a horizontal arc, putting all his weight behind the swing.
The Carian-enhanced edge sliced through three of the captain's arms at once, severing them cleanly at the shoulders. Weapons clattered to the ground, still clutched in lifeless hands. The captain screamed—a horrible, three-voiced howl of agony—as he staggered backward, black ichor spraying from the stumps.
"You'll die for that!" the right head shrieked, its voice higher with pain and fear as he charged aimlessly once again.
But Harry had noticed something crucial. The moment those grafted arms were severed, the captain's movements became noticeably slower, less coordinated. The three remaining arms trembled, as if suddenly bearing too much burden.
The realization struck Harry like lightning. "The grafts," he murmured. "They're not just additions—they're parasites. The new added strength and speed leaves the host's body once they are severed."
His mind raced to Godrick. If the same principle applied, then the lord's many grafted limbs might be his weakness as well as his strength. Cut away enough of them, and the man would grow slower and weaker.
The captain charged again, but his movements were sluggish now, unbalanced by the sudden loss of half his arms. Harry easily sidestepped the attack, noting how the captain stumbled, struggling to compensate for his altered form.
"You're slower," Harry observed, circling his opponent. "Those arms weren't really yours, were they? Just borrowed power. And look how quickly it fades."
"Silence!" the center head screamed, flecks of spittle flying from its lips. "I am the chosen of Lord Godrick! I am—"
Harry didn't wait for him to finish. As the captain swung wildly with his remaining arms, Harry ducked under the attack and thrust upward with his glowing blade. In one clean stroke, he severed all three heads from the mismatched body, sending them spinning through the air to land with dull thuds on the stone floor.
The headless body stood for a moment, arms twitching spasmodically, then collapsed in a heap of mismatched armor and stolen limbs.
Harry lowered his sword, breathing heavily as the blue glow faded from the blade. The inner gate chamber was silent now, save for the drip of blood and the fading whimpers of the dying. His spirit wolves had long since dissipated, their purpose served. Harry felt the runes sinking into his chest, but this time, there were more runes; he figured this was because of the captain.
Slow applause broke the silence. Harry's head snapped up, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword.
A figure stood on a balcony opposite the one he'd jumped from—a man in elegant blue robes embroidered with silver constellations. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but Harry recognized him immediately: Sorcerer Rogier, the mysterious spellcaster he'd encountered briefly in the church like building.
"Well, well! What have we here?" Rogier called down, his voice carrying a theatrical lilt. "If it isn't our brave Tarnished, still hale and hearty! Methinks the abyss hath spit thee back out, eh? Most unusual, most unusual indeed!"
"Rogier. What do you want?"
Blue light shimmered beside Harry, coalescing into Melina's form. Her single visible eye narrowed as she regarded the sorcerer with evident suspicion.
Rogier descended a side staircase with the aid of his staff. His smile was wide beneath his hat brim, revealing teeth too perfect to be trustworthy.
"Want? Why, what doth any man want in these troubled times?" He chuckled, spreading his arms dramatically. "Knowledge, my good fellow! The sweetest currency in all the Lands!" He circled Harry with exaggerated steps, peering at him as if he were a fascinating specimen. "Thou hast been down in the deepest dark, and yet here thou stand'st, wreathed in flames most forbidden! 'Tis a miracle, or mayhap something far more interesting, hmm?"
"We don't have time for this," Melina said quietly to Harry. "Your friends await."
Rogier's gaze snapped to Melina, his smile never faltering. "Ah! The mysterious guide appears! How fortuitous! I had wondered who led our young champion so unerringly through Stormveil's labyrinth."
He bowed with flourish, twirling his staff. "Fear not, fair lady. I've no designs to delay thy precious Tarnished overlong. Merely a simple trade betwixt tarnished, as it were!"
Harry kept his sword ready, unconvinced. "What kind of trade?"
"Oh, nothing too taxing!" Rogier tapped his temple. "Thou tell'st me what lurks in the abyss that hath so transformed thee, and I shall impart the knowledge of my finest spell—Scholar's Shield!" He gestured grandly, conjuring a big blue shield on his right arm that eventually disappeared, dissolving into hundreds of blue lights like stars. "A sorcery of such magnitude that even Raya Lucaria's finest soil their robes at its mention!"
Melina touched Harry's arm lightly. "Be careful," she murmured. "He seeks knowledge that some believe should remain buried."
Rogier's eyes glinted from beneath his hat. "Come now, we're all friends here! Hast thou forgotten the glintstone scroll I so generously provided?" He sidled closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "And Scholar's Shield... well, against a certain grafted lord, such defense might prove most decisive if thou catch'st my meaning."
Harry hesitated, weighing his options. Time was precious, but another powerful spell could make the difference against Godrick.
"I saw Godwyn," Harry said finally. "Or something like him. In a void beneath the castle."
Rogier froze mid-gesture, his theatrical manner slipping for just a moment. "Godwyn the Golden? The firstborn?" His voice had lost its affected lilt, becoming sharper, more focused. "Art thou certain? What manner of vision was this?"
"It wasn't just a vision," Harry said, unconsciously touching his chest where the Cursemark lay hidden beneath his armor. "He spoke to me. Showed me things—about the Night of Black Knives, about his mother."
"Fascinating," Rogier whispered, genuine awe replacing his usual artifice. "And these flames thou wield'st... they came after this encounter?"
Harry nodded.
Rogier seemed to remember himself, the showman's mask slipping back into place. "Well then! A bargain fairly struck!" He reached into a pocket, pulled out a blue scroll, and threw it at Harry's hand, who caught it in mid-air.
"Perhaps we shall speak again, after thou hast dealt with Godrick. I suspect there is much more to thy tale than meets the eye."
Harry opened the scroll, and he read the text. It wasn't difficult; he was sure he could master it.
"Thy friends await beyond, I fear in most unpleasant circumstances," Rogier said, backing away with exaggerated caution. "I shall not keep thee longer. But remember, young Tarnished—knowledge shared is a debt incurred!" He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. "We shall meet again!"
With that, he turned and hurried back up the stairs, vanishing into the shadows of the upper galleries.
"I don't trust him," Melina said once he was gone.
"Neither do I," Harry replied, flexing his fingers. "But we need every advantage we can get."
He approached the massive portcullis, examining the mechanism that controlled it. With a grunt of effort, he turned the heavy crank, chains rattling as the iron gate slowly rose.
"They're close," Melina said softly.
"Then let's not keep them waiting any longer."
Chapter 19 will come out Tomorrow
Comments
the dark
CHAPTER 19 TOMORROW...... you beautiful bastard i love it
