"Settle down." The old wizard at the front lifted both hands, palms out, the way someone might calm a pack of dogs that knew perfectly well they could eat him.
Alforc Morn, former plague warlock, current chair only because he'd outlived the last five and because he was the least threatening creature in the chamber, held together mostly by clerical stubbornness. What he lacked in strength he made up for in tracking work and an encyclopaedic instinct for paperwork, which was precisely why he'd been saddled with chairing these gatherings. Too soft for ambition, too stained for the Keepers ever to pardon, and far too aware that everyone here could snap him in half.
A woman three rows back scowled up at him. Not figuratively, her face simply did that on its own. "Who put you in charge?"
He let out a sigh that suggested this wasn't the first time she'd asked. "All of you did. Last century. There was a vote. Remember?"
She blinked. "Oh. Right. Carry on, then."
The hall settled, though calling it a hall was generous for a cavern lined with ancient pillars and stains no one cared to identify. Well, sort of, at least the grumbling died down.
The Covenant had gathered.
Dozens of Dark Witches and Dark Wizards, the ones whose names went unrecorded because parchment preferred not to be complicit. Some arrived shrouded in glamour, some didn't bother. Some sat masked, others barefaced, as if daring the rest to try something.
At the far right, Voldemort sat quietly. He was young by the room's standards, practically unfinished beside the ancients. The Covenant hadn't wanted him, no Dark Magick with sense carved up their own soul. Even Herpo the Foul, who'd invented the wretched magic, never created Horcruxes. Yet here he was, admitted last winter only because the Marauder had vouched for him. Not the strongest, not even middling, but vicious enough and delusional enough that they'd let him in with a grimace. Lineage helped too.
Not far from him, Feng Shui Marauder to those who needed the full title, grinned at anyone looking his way.
The old wizard cleared his throat. "First point... Keepers of the Balance."
Groans of annoyance and no small number of eye-rolls went through the lines.
One witch leaned forward on her cane. "They've been poking about again. Sightings in Greece six years running."
Another lifted a hand lazily. "Australia as well. One of mine spotted them inland. Chased them off."
Someone snorted. "Liar."
"Fine. They chased themselves off."
A wizard with teeth filed to points raised his cup. "I saw their trail in the Yucatan. Those undying bastards with them."
Nicolas Flamel and Perenelle Flamel.
Alforc nodded. "Multiple confirmations. They've been moving across continents for the last decade. Greece. Australia. China. Mesoamerica. Whatever they're hunting, they've widened the net."
"Or running from something," muttered another.
"Keepers don't run," someone said. "They sulk and meddle."
A man in the second row, scarred, missing two fingers, always eager to die on the wrong hill, grinned across the room. "Funny they turned up in China. Thought they might've come for you, Marauder. Since your grandson made such a mess of things."
The Marauder lifted his gaze, which was enough to silence the room. He simply stared at the man long enough for the idiot's grin to wilt into a twitch.
Alforc coughed loudly. "We're not here to discuss... family matters."
The Marauder's eyes stayed fixed on the man who'd spoken. The man stared at the floor, wishing it would swallow him.
Alforc pressed on, louder, hoping to outrun the collective silence.
"If Flamels are active, it confirms something important's going on. Their movement pattern suggests they're looking for something specific. They rarely involve themselves unless they believe the wider balance is at risk."
A woman in plum robes scoffed. "Balance. They call themselves Keepers, but they only intervene when it benefits them."
"That," someone muttered, "makes them predictable."
"And irritating," another added.
Alforc rubbed his neck. "Right. That's our first item logged. Keepers sighted. Activity rising. Assume interference."
He flipped a parchment over with a dry rustle. "Next item. We welcome a new Dark Lord into the Covenant."
A side door groaned open.
Heavy steps followed, metal striking stone. A few heads turned. More than a few winced.
The figure ducked under the lintel as he entered.
He wore proper battlefield armour, scarred and blackened, as if he'd walked straight out of a burning keep. A sword hung at his hip. Odd thing, there was no scabbard, only a bare blade resting in a metal loop.
His hair was white, not the thinning elderly sort but stark white against a young face stained a deep, almost ashen grey. His stubble was black, sharply black, which made the white hair stand out even more. His eyes, though, were what froze the room.
Red. A kind of red that made even the masked witches shift in their seats.
He stopped beside Alforc.
A murmur ran through the hall. Voldemort's eyes flicked sideways at Marauder.
The newcomer swept his gaze round the chamber.
Half the Covenant went rigid under it. The other half pretended they weren't.
The witch who'd heckled earlier, Kaed Thorn, notorious for killing thirteen husbands and never bothering to bury any of them, clicked her tongue loudly.
"What's this then?" she scoffed. "We are recruiting strays now? And he drags steel into a magical assembly. Do we collect sword-swingers as pets?"
The hall grumbled in agreement.
Alforc lifted both hands. "Enough. He's not a stray. He's a Warmage."
That quieted a few. Warmages were rare. Proper old-world craft. They didn't duel from balconies or throw curses for sport. They fought sieges.
Alforc went on, "He's been vetted. Fully. I assure you, he isn't weak."
Kaed barked a laugh. "So you say."
The newcomer turned his head toward her.
Slowly.
Kaed's smirk slipped.
Alforc gestured, coughing. "You don't need the history, you only need the fact he carries his title by right and by conquest. Lord-"
Someone muttered, "Conquest?" like it tasted off.
Another hissed, "Warmages fell out of Europe six centuries ago."
Alforc nodded toward the sword at the newcomer's hip. "Yes. When one shows up with that still intact, we pay attention."
Kaed snorted, trying to recover her earlier bravado. "Still looks like a boy who wandered out of the wrong century."
The white-haired wizard grinned, bright and far too pleased with himself.
"So," he said, tone almost friendly, "my understanding is that to stand in the Covenant, I'm meant to prove my worth. And that I'm Dark enough for the seat."
A few snorted. Kaed rolled her eyes.
His red gaze landed on her.
"You'll do."
He lifted one hand slowly. Kaed didn't even manage an insult. Her body went soft, colour draining, form thinning. Then she crumbled. Dust, fine as ash, lifting in a faint swirl.
Kaed Thorn, last of the old Druids who had broken her own order, reversed their rites, and stole years out of anything that breathed, learnt to pull longevity from earth, plants, animals, people too. She had kept herself alive for centuries by taking life from anything that had it. She had survived plagues, wars, purges, the collapse of her own forests, and had outlived entire bloodlines.
Until now.
Two witches in the second row shifted back in their chairs.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. The Marauder's grin sharpened.
The white-haired wizard brushed a fleck of dust off his gauntlet. "Proof enough?" he asked, still smiling, as if he'd only cleared his throat and not erased a legend from the room.
No one answered.
"Right, as I was saying." Alforc Morn's throat bobbed. "This is Lord Bathael, the Sovereign of Ashfal."
"Bathael-?" a witch choked. "No. No, that's-"
"Ashfal?" another cut in, sharper. "You're joking. That Ashfal?"
"That's what he said, you deaf-"
"I heard him, I'm saying it's nonsense."
A chair scraped. An older wizard snapped. "That name is trouble."
"Trouble?" someone barked a laugh. "It's a grave, you idiot."
"Shut up, you weren't even-"
"I was alive, thank you-"
"Alive doesn't mean present."
"Neither were you!"
"Oh, for-"
A woman further down leaned forward, frowning hard at Bathael. "No, hold on... he wasn't dark."
That cut through more than the shouting.
"He wasn't," she insisted, louder now. "He went against the King. He wasn't dark," she repeated. "Everyone knew that."
From somewhere near the middle, a witch stared, "There were stories."
"Stories?" someone scoffed. "We're basing this on stories now?"
"Shut it and listen," the speaker snapped. "After Ashfal. After-" they hesitated, grimacing, "after the Dark King."
That got a few flinches.
"They said something changed," the voice went on, almost a whisper. "That he-"
"Broke," someone finished bluntly.
"Lost someone," another added, almost at the same time.
Down the row, an older witch, Lady Nightingale, shook her head slowly, still staring at Bathael like she was trying to match him to something that didn't quite fit anymore.
"...No," she murmured. "No, this is wrong. Either that's not him..."
She trailed off.
"...or we've all remembered it wrong."
"Didn't you see what he did to Kaed?"
A few heads turned. Someone swallowed audibly.
"That was too fast," one wizard said. "She didn't even get a curse off."
Finally, reluctantly someone whispered, "There's only one kind of monster that could do that..."
Bathael glanced down at the room, as if checking whether anyone else fancied volunteering.
He lifted his brow. "Right. Do I also need to prove I'm not keeling over any time soon, or was that enough of a demonstration?"
Marauder barked a laugh. "No need for another round. We can all see what you did. You pulled every last day she'd hoarded for yourself. It's feeding you already."
Several heads nodded, uneasy but not disagreeing.
Bathael snapped his fingers. "Brilliant. Saves me a speech."
He rolled his shoulders, armour creaking softly, and looked round at the rest of them as if he were addressing old friends rather than a hall full of people who'd kill each other for stepping on the wrong bit of floor.
"Since we're all getting along so well," he said, "I brought something for the table. Call it a welcome gift. Bit of gossip. Bit of warning."
A few leaned in despite themselves.
"The Keepers," Bathael went on, "are moving again. Proper movement. Not their usual wander-about-and-glare-at-landmarks routine. They're about to start something this summer. Multiple sites, spread wide. Whatever it is, it's old and nasty enough that even they're twitching."
That got the room's attention.
"I wouldn't have bothered coming out of hiding if one of the sites weren't practically on my doorstep. And before any of you ask, no, I'm not telling you where that doorstep is."
Someone in the back scoffed.
Bathael grinned. "Point is, we're going to have company soon. And if they finish what they're setting up, it won't favour any of us. Balance types never aim small. They're planning something big enough that even I'd prefer it didn't happen. So. We stop them. Or we at least make sure whatever they're hunting doesn't get found."
Marauder sat back, teeth showing. "Well. That's summer sorted."
Bathael gave him a mock salute. "Happy to be of service."
Alforc shuffled his parchments again, though he wasn't reading a thing.
"If Lord Bathael has concluded his... introduction," he said, "we may proceed to strategic discussion."
He might as well have asked the pillars for help.
Voldemort lifted his head. "A question," he said, turning his pale gaze on Bathael. "What exactly is on your doorstep? A beast? A rift? Something sealed?"
Bathael's grin widened. "You know how it is with old things. They never stay exactly where you leave them."
Marauder snorted. "He's dodging because he likes the attention," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Warmages always did enjoy theatrics."
Bathael shrugged. "Can't help what works."
Alforc didn't dare chastise either of them. "The Keepers' activity will require redistribution of our assets. Any pockets of resistance-"
"Let them resist," a masked witch muttered. "They'll serve as testing grounds."
Bathael chuckled. "You can test whatever you like, so long as you don't test things on my patch."
Marauder got up from his seat, sauntering toward the high platform. He reached the centre of the stage and spread his hands. "Right, my turn. I've actually got something interesting to share." His grin sharpened. "I've finished what we discussed last time."
A few heads turned. More than a few stiffened.
Marauder tilted his head, eyes bright. "It's time to declare war on the Keepers."
A few straightened. Someone swore under his breath.
Bathael's eyes narrowed.
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