Talk? About what?
Regulus studied the five figures below. The two survivors hung at the rear, whether out of a healthy respect for what he'd done to them or simply because rank demanded they stay behind the other three.
The leader, judging by his magical signature, sat roughly at the level of a Hogwarts professor.
But raw magical power meant little on its own. Plenty of wizards grew stronger simply by aging well. That wasn't the same as knowing what to do with it.
This man clearly did. He stood on the ocean's surface with magic that moved like a deep-sea current: calm on top, violent underneath.
Regulus thought back to what Freya had told him on the day they arrived in Reef Town. About the Abyssal Whispers.
They worshipped the deep sea. Believed magic should be like the ocean itself: objective, vast, drowning out every individual voice. Their magic felt cold and carried a kind of inhuman rationality.
It sounded familiar.
That thing beneath the ruins had shown him something fundamental, something closer to a source. It had no use for free will. No interest in independent thought.
What it wanted was absorption. Individuals folded into something greater, their noise silenced, everything returned to that frigid magical framework.
Not a coincidence, Regulus thought.
The Abyssal Whispers' origin, their philosophy, whatever they'd been chasing all these centuries... it was almost certainly tied to the ruins.
They might even be a descendant organization, born from that very framework.
Perhaps centuries ago, someone had made contact with the ruins and walked the path it offered. That person founded the organization and passed down what they'd learned. Over time, successors transformed it into faith. Into purpose.
And they might have tracked the ruins down decades ago, only to find someone standing in their way.
The archive was the key to entering the Slumbering Abyss. Grindelwald had held it. After his defeat, he'd entrusted it to the Eisenhardts, and only this year had it passed to Freya.
So they'd waited. Until Regulus came to Germany. Until today, when the two of them descended into the Slumbering Abyss.
He filed the thought away. Now wasn't the time to chase it further.
He kept silent and let Freya handle the negotiation, standing beside her as a visible deterrent. Fiendfyre coiled around him. Grey-green light pulsed at his wand tip, faint and steady.
Freya's voice cut through the night air, cold as the sea beneath them. "What do you want to talk about?"
Below, the leader felt a quiet resignation.
Did he want to talk? Of course not.
He'd rather take the archive by force. Not even keep it. Just look at it once, then hand it back.
He'd apologize for the inconvenience. Offer lavish compensation. Crack open the organization's vaults: magical artifacts, hidden knowledge, unique spells, treasures pulled from the deep. Whatever they wanted.
Or skip the violence entirely and offer something too tempting to refuse.
But neither option was viable. Not tonight.
The two people on that ship represented the Eisenhardt family and the Black family, both among the most powerful magical bloodlines in Europe. The Black boy was the confirmed heir.
Even so, the leader wasn't afraid of them. The Abyssal Whispers had existed for centuries. In any given region they might lack the entrenched influence of a local pure-blood dynasty, but the power they commanded earned them a seat at anyone's table.
In his mind, his side was the one that deserved caution.
Pure-blood families spent their days scrambling for leverage, guarding their bloodlines, playing tedious social games. What did they chase?
Status.
Wealth.
Marriage alliances.
Seats at the Ministry of Magic.
The Abyssal Whispers pursued the truth of magic itself. Hidden knowledge buried by time. Traces left by things far older than humanity.
The two pursuits weren't even comparable.
But the witch was different. His gaze settled on the blue flames wreathing Freya's body, and something shifted behind his mask.
When the island leader had described them, he'd been skeptical. Blue fire wasn't remarkable in itself; plenty of wizards could conjure colored flames.
Seeing it in person ended the doubt. He recognized this fire.
Thirty years ago, one man's flames had looked exactly like this. The color. The shape. The way they burned. That instinctive pressure that made you want to step back.
Identical.
Grindelwald.
A mark left by an entire era. He'd been locked in Nurmengard for nearly three decades, vanished from public life. But as long as he still breathed, as long as this might be his hand reaching out from behind those walls, the leader of the Abyssal Whispers wouldn't dare act.
And then there was the Black boy. The Fiendfyre spiraling around him was clearly the work of exceptional skill, and he was so young.
The island leader's account of that wardless, signless area curse spoke for itself. That level of mastery at that age, with that kind of destructive reach...
If the first strike didn't kill him, he'd become a nightmare for the entire organization. And the Eisenhardt witch beside him was no ornament either.
Can't take it by force. The leader ran through the calculus and snuffed the thought before it could take root.
But he could still try to trade.
He stepped forward, tilting his head up toward the two on the ship.
"My name is Joachim von de Velde." His voice remained rough and weathered, scoured raw as driftwood. "Current head of the Abyssal Whispers."
"Miss Eisenhardt. Mr. Black. I'm prepared to offer everything the Abyssal Whispers have accumulated over centuries in exchange: knowledge, wealth, treasure, intelligence on other ruins, unique magic. All of it. For one look at the archive."
Every word carried weight. Sincerity radiated from the offer like heat from stone.
Freya didn't hesitate. "No."
No room for discussion. No softening. Just the word, clean and final.
Joachim didn't flinch. He'd expected this.
Joachim paused, then asked, "Can you at least tell me what you brought back?"
Freya said nothing. She genuinely didn't know what Regulus had gained, or whether he'd gained anything at all. His expression had been relaxed since they surfaced, which suggested he'd come away with something, but what exactly...
The thought sharpened her irritation. If not for these five, Regulus would already be explaining it to her.
She directed that displeasure downward, and Joachim found himself on the receiving end of a look he couldn't quite parse.
The blue flames around her body flared for an instant, bright and sharp, before pulling back tight against her form. It was brief, but enough to make him gather his magic by reflex.
He'd lived through the Grindelwald era. Every year of it.
Thirty years ago, he'd watched that man cast from a distance. Where those blue flames passed, some turned to ash while others stood untouched.
The power. The pressure. That particular quality. He remembered it all, vivid as yesterday.
The fire on this witch was nothing compared to Grindelwald's. The gap was enormous. Grindelwald's flames could have swallowed an entire stretch of sea; hers could barely shield herself.
But magic was magic. The same fire, even at a fraction of the strength, demanded respect. And who was to say this was the limit of what she could do?
No one answered his question. Regulus had no intention of volunteering anything, and in truth, he hadn't brought back anything tangible. If he had to point to something...
He glanced at the Fiendfyre spiraling around him. It's all right here. Want some?
Joachim found himself at a loss. Couldn't take it. Couldn't trade for it. His gaze shifted to Regulus.
"Mr. Black. What about you? Would you be willing to negotiate?"
Regulus shook his head.
It wasn't his to give. He couldn't agree on Freya's behalf, and even if he could, it wasn't his call.
Joachim inhaled slowly. He'd expected this outcome, but the reality still burned.
Centuries.
The organization had existed for centuries. They'd finally traced their way here, and two people, impossibly young by his measure, stood between them and everything they'd sought.
Centuries of searching. Centuries of devotion. Blocked by a boy and a girl.
But even setting aside the possibility of Grindelwald's involvement, these two alone were a dangerous proposition. He was confident he could beat them in a straight fight.
But he'd seen them Apparate in the water.
That meant unless they were killed in a single blow, they could vanish at will. Open ocean, infinite directions. Apparate to any point on the water and they'd never be found.
Could fight them. Couldn't take from them. Couldn't trade with them.
Joachim stared at them, and a thought surfaced unbidden: Then we wait another century.
The target was confirmed. The ruins were there. Everything else was patience.
And they were so young. Sooner or later, they'd need help. Or in a few decades, their thinking might shift.
Better to keep this civil than burn the bridge now.
The sea gathered beneath Joachim's feet, currents converging into a rising column that lifted him smoothly upward and forward.
The water carried him to the height of the bow. He hung there at eye level with Freya and Regulus, less than three meters away.
Regulus's expression didn't change. He stood where he was, watching the man rise to meet them. But his magical perception had already spread wide.
The refinement of his star guided meditation had sharpened that sense considerably. He could feel it clearly: no hostile intent, no preparation for attack.
He didn't relax. If the man was skilled enough, he could mask his magic entirely and leave nothing to sense.
The light at his wand tip brightened.
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