Chapter 67: A Tale Of The Herald Of Darkness

"Row, you alright?" Helga asked, glancing over her shoulder with a confident smirk. Despite the bleeding gash on her forehead and the dirt smudging her face. "Sorry about that. Had to take a quick nap."

Rowena stepped closer; her wide sapphire eyes fixed on Helga's glowing gauntlets. But it wasn't intrigue that filled her gaze—it was concern. "Helga, are you sure about this?" she asked.

For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crossed Helga's features, but it quickly dissolved into a determined smile. She nodded firmly. "I've spent my whole life hiding who I am, Row. Ever since I was a little girl, it felt like living in a world made of paper."

Her gaze dropped to her hands, the shimmering glow of the gauntlets illuminating her fingers. "Always so careful not to break something… or someone. Constantly holding back, always in control, because if I slipped, even for a second, someone could get hurt—or worse." Her voice softened, the weight of her words pressing down. "I know what it's like, having people look at you differently, like you're some kind of freak, a monster."

She took a deep breath, her shoulders straightening as she looked up again. "But Godric… he's never hidden who he is. Not once. From the day we met, he's faced the world head-on, even when it turned against him. He speaks his mind, fights for what he believes in, and never apologizes for being himself. If he has that kind of courage, then so do I."

Helga's blazing gauntlets flared brighter; the runes etched into the metal glowing with an intense, fiery light. She raised her fists and shifted into a ready stance, her amber eyes steady and unyielding. "And, Row… maybe it's time you stopped hiding too."

Rowena's eyes widened in surprise at Helga's words, the weight of them settling heavily. She glanced toward Derek, who was already preparing another spell, then to Raine, who watched the scene unfold with worry etched into her golden eyes. Rowena's resolve solidified as she turned back to Helga and gave a firm nod.

"Edgar! Poe!" she called, her gaze shooting upward.

The sound of flapping wings echoed through the tower as a pair of ravens swooped down from above, their black feathers gleaming in the faint light. Rowena twirled her wand between her fingers, her eyes narrowing with newfound determination.

"Quoth the Raven," she murmured. "Nevermore."

She flung her wand high into the air. "Vera Verto!" she cried.

The ravens let out sharp cries as they spiraled toward the wand, their flight graceful and synchronized. As they merged with the wand, a brilliant light erupted, engulfing them in a radiant glow. The air shimmered, and when the light faded, the wand had transformed into a sleek, black bow, its surface carved with intricate raven motifs.

The bow descended, and Rowena caught it deftly in one hand. She twirled it, her fingers already pulling the ethereal string taut.

"Let's finish this, Helga," Rowena said with conviction. She turned to her friend, a determined glint in her eyes.

"Together!" Helga grinned, slamming her gauntlets together with a fiery spark, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Rowena.

****

Workner spat his ale in a fine mist, his steel-grey eyes widening in shock as his jaw dropped, a trail of ale dribbling down the side of his mouth. "Blow me down… it can't be," he muttered.

Serfence, now dripping with ale, gave him a withering stare, dabbing his face with a napkin he'd snatched from the table. "Exquisite spray, my dear friend," he said dryly, before turning his gaze back to the screen. "But your theatrics aside, it seems the rumors are true after all—about Miss Hufflepuff and Miss Ravenclaw."

"I've heard whispers, stories about Miss Hufflepuff's lineage," Workner said, almost reverent. He leaned back on his stool, the weight of astonishment pressing on his posture. "But none of those whispers could ever confirm it—not like this. Not like seeing the legendary relic with my own eyes."

His gaze fixed intently on the glowing gauntlets, their fiery runes pulsating with raw, ancient power. The energy emanating from them seemed to ripple through the room, commanding silence and awe.

"Levantine… fists of the Jötuns. I never thought it truly existed, let alone live to see it." He drew a sharp breath, his gaze narrowing. "And the fact that she can wield it, proves it beyond any shadow of doubt. Helga Hufflepuff is descended from a race thought to be nothing more than a myth."

"And Miss Ravenclaw's bow…" Serfence said. "I've only ever heard of it— a Transfiguration spell unique to the Ravenclaws, its secrets guarded fiercely and passed down through their bloodline."

Workner nodded thoughtfully. "I was given an honorary invitation by Headmaster Blaise years ago to the Ventus Visionary Trials as a spectator. I remember it distinctly. Her brother, Bran Ravenclaw, wielded it then. Though, I must say, his version was… markedly different from Miss Ravenclaw's."

Serfence's eyes narrowed as he studied the intricate details of Rowena's bow, his expression unusually grave. "The Raven's Black," he murmured. "The Bow of Shadows." He drew a slow, deliberate breath, the realization settling heavily upon him. "Nevermore."

****

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" Údar roared, her fist shooting into the air as her hounds joined in with boisterous cheers, their voices mingling with the raucous shouts of half The Congregation. "Show those feckin' Calishan gobshites who's boss!"

Cú leaned back, his dark crimson eyes narrowing with a knowing smirk. "Well, it seems you were right after all, Údar," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Those two really are something special. You've got yourself quite the circle of friends, eh, Gryffindor?"

****

Elsewhere within the castle, hidden deep within the shifting confines of a Room of Requirement, Salazar fought tooth and nail, his emerald eyes blazing with determination. His wand flourished in rapid, precise movements as he darted across the room, evading and dissipating a relentless barrage of spells from more than a dozen masked opponents. The air was alive with bursts of magic—flashes of colored light, arcs of lightning, and roaring flames filled the room with chaotic brilliance. Despite the overwhelming odds, Salazar held his ground, refusing to falter.

Charging forward, he slammed his shoulder into one of the masked attackers, the impact driving the air from the man's lungs. Seizing the man's arm, Salazar twisted it sharply, maneuvering him into position as a human shield. With practiced precision, he fired off a series of spells, knocking back several assailants attempting to close in on him. In a fluid motion, Salazar flipped the man over, delivering a sharp kick to his stomach before pointing his wand at him.

"Depulso!" Salazar shouted. The spell struck with crushing force, hurling the masked attacker into the wall with a sickening thud.

Salazar barely had a moment to breathe before a spell struck him in the side, the pain drawing a grunt from his lips. He retaliated with a blast of his own, but another spell hit him before he could fully recover. His sharp gaze darted around the room, calculating his options. There were too many of them, attacking from every angle, their spells closing in like a tightening noose.

Rance stepped forward, his wand moving in a vicious onslaught of attacks that forced Salazar to retreat, his movements becoming more desperate as he deflected spell after spell.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Rance bellowed, his wand slashing through the air. The spell hit Salazar, freezing him mid-motion, his eyes widening in shock and fury.

Rance sneered. "Everte Statum!" The spell slammed into Salazar's chest with brutal force, sending him flipping through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed onto the hard floor, tumbling to a stop, his body groaning in protest as he struggled to rise.

The room fell into a tense silence for a fleeting moment, the masked figures closing in, their eyes gleaming with anticipation beneath their polished silver masks. Salazar lay on the cold floor, battered but not broken. Rance approached with an overconfident swagger, his smirk twisting into a sneer as he stared down at Salazar.

"So, this is the great Salazar Slytherin?" Rance taunted. "How pitiful. After all that talk about how you're so much better—untouchable, invincible—look at you now. In the end, you're just a man. No, not even that—a scared little boy, hiding behind his sharp tongue because, deep down, you know that if the world ever saw you for what you really are, you'd crumble to dust."

Salazar raised his head, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He spat a red stain onto the floor before grinning, his emerald eyes glinting with defiance. "Oh, the irony, Gramont," he rasped. He struggled to a knee, his smirk never wavering. "Truly, never have I met someone so confident in their inadequacy. You're so utterly pathetic that you need nearly a dozen mercenaries just to put me down. Shame must not even register in your vocabulary."

"Shame is a choice, Slytherin," Rance spat back, his expression darkening. "And history doesn't care about the road traveled, only the destination. It won't remember the methods—just the results."

"Well, history remembers two things about a man, Gramont," Salazar replied. "His greatest triumphs… and his most spectacular failures."

Rance leaned in, his sneer widening. "And how do you think history will remember you?" He straightened up, gesturing lazily to one of the masked mercenaries. "But alas, as riveting as this little chat has been, I have far more pressing matters to attend to. Volg's waiting, after all. Farewell, Salazar."

One of the mercenaries stepped forward, their wand leveled at Salazar. The faint glow of green magic began to hum at its tip, ominous and final.

Salazar's smirk only deepened. "What was that about getting your hands dirty?" he asked, his tone biting. "You spineless, self-serving hypocrite."

"Oh, don't tempt me," Rance gaze narrowed. "There's nothing I'd enjoy more than watching the light leave those insufferable eyes of yours. But I have ambitions, Slytherin. You can't rule from beside the Table if you're rotting in Revel's End, now, can you?"

The mercenary stepped closer, their grip tightening on the wand. "Any last words?" they growled.

Salazar tilted his head. "Just one…" His mouth opened, and the sound that escaped was not human—it was a hiss, low and serpentine, cutting through the room like a blade of ice. It was a sound that seemed to coil itself around the soul, sending a cold dread rippling through everyone present.

"What the Hell—" the mercenary began, but their words died in their throat. Their eyes widened behind the silver mask as they looked down at the spear's tip piercing through their chest from behind. Blood spilled from their lips, drizzling down the mask before the weapon was wrenched back, their lifeless body collapsing to the floor.

The two halves of a spear floated menacingly to Salazar's side, their blackened metal gleaming ominously in the dim light. An air of lethal intent radiated from their razor-sharp edges. Just below the main blade, a long, silken emerald green fabric was tied, fluttering faintly, as if the weapon itself breathed with anticipation.

"Pray tell, Gramont…" Salazar began, raising to his feet. "You ever hear the legend of Gáe Birgha?"

****

Rance instinctively took a step back, his throat tightening as he stared at the lifeless body sprawled on the floor. His mercenaries had their wands trained on Salazar, but even from his vantage, Rance could see the slight tremble in their grips. His own fingers clenched tightly around his wand, his knuckles whitening as his teeth ground together. He knew what that sound was—that unnatural, devilish hissing.

He had read about it in forbidden texts, heard it in whispered tales, and been frightened into submission by its mention as a child. As he grew, he'd dismissed it as superstition, nothing more than stories to keep whelps in line. But now, standing in the presence of the very thing he'd feared, he felt it slither into his bones and coil around his heart like the tightening grip of a serpent.

"Well," Salazar stepped forward with measured, deliberate strides. "Considering your evident lack of understanding, let me enlighten you." His emerald eyes glinted with amusement. "This spear has been in the Slytherin family for generations. Its origins? Shrouded in mystery. Some say it was forged by the Old Gods themselves, imbued with power beyond mortal comprehension. Others say—"

A bolt of light streaked toward him as one of the mercenaries lost their nerve and fired. Salazar hissed again, that cold, unearthly sound filling the air. The spear moved of its own accord, spinning in a vicious blur, deflecting the spell with a sharp crack. The magic dissipated into harmless sparks.

"Now, now," Salazar chided as he wagged a finger. "Let's maintain some decorum, shall we? Kindly refrain from interrupting while I'm speaking." He smirked, his gaze settling back on Rance. "As I was saying, others claim this weapon was forged from the remains of a monstrous beast, its essence bound to the steel."

The two halves of the spear began to move, twisting and locking together with a mechanical precision. In moments, it formed a single gleaming weapon, nearly six feet in length. The dark metal shimmered with a faint, ominous glow, and the air seemed to grow colder.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Salazar drawled. "This spear has a will of its own—a soul, if you will. But here's the intriguing part…" He paused. "It only heeds one voice: mine. Or rather, the voice of Slytherin's heirs and their... particularly distinctive vernacular."

"Demon…" Rance rasped. His legs trembled as fear clawed at him. "Monster!" He pointed a shaking finger at Salazar. "I thought it was just a legend—a story to frighten children! But you're real." His voice rose in pitch, teetering on hysteria. "You're a Parselmouth… and of all people, it had to be you!"

Salazar's smirk widened with predatory delight. "Ah, the tales they tell," he said. "But yes, Rance, it had to be me. And for that, you should consider yourself very unlucky indeed."

Rance scoffed. "No matter, fancy spear or not, you're still outnumbered." He raised his wand, pointing it directly at Salazar. "You'll still die worthless and alone."

Salazar responded with a low chuckle, a sound that started deep in his chest and grew into a loud, boisterous laugh. He raised a hand to his face, covering his expression as his laughter echoed ominously around the room.

"Oh, Gramont… you poor, simple fool."

He slowly lowered his hand, revealing his face. His gaze locked onto Rance, and the blood drained from the boy's face as he noticed the change. Salazar's emerald-green eyes were gone, replaced by glowing amber irises, their pupils narrowed into cold, serpentine slits.

"I'm never alone," Salazar hissed.

The sound began as a faint rustle, barely noticeable at first, but it grew louder with every passing second. A chorus of slithering and hissing filled the room, a storm of noise that sent shivers down spines. The mercenaries glanced around in panic, their wands snapping in every direction as the sound came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

With a sudden clang, the vents around the room burst open, the covers crashing to the ground. What came next froze every mercenary in place. Hundreds of snakes poured through the openings, cascading down like a living, writhing tide. They moved in unison, a wave of scales and fangs, each slithering with terrifying purpose. The mercenaries screamed and cried out, instinctively clustering together as the serpentine horde surrounded them.

The snakes avoided Salazar entirely, their movements fluid and reverent as they coiled and slithered around his feet. Among them, a single snake stood out—a pale, ghostly white serpent that coiled its way up his body with ease. It wrapped itself around his shoulders, its glistening scales catching the dim light.

"There you are, my dear," Salazar said softly, his tone almost affectionate as he addressed the serpent. He tilted his head slightly, his expression eerily calm. "Nirah… it must feel good to be free from those dusky, dreary vents, doesn't it?"

The serpent hissed in reply, its forked tongue flicking out as if in agreement. The room was filled with the cacophony of terrified shouts and the relentless hissing of the serpents. Salazar's chilling smirk widened as he surveyed the chaos.

"You see, Rance," he drawled with a sinister edge. "I've done things. Terrible things. Things that would haunt you to the very marrow of your bones, things that would jolt you awake in the dead of night, screaming, clawing at the walls, begging the Gods themselves for deliverance from the nightmares."

"You talk about dirtying your hands, but you don't have the faintest idea of what that truly means. Look at you—shaking like a leaf." Salazar's gaze dropped to the lifeless body at his feet, his tone as cold as the room itself. "This is your first time, isn't it?" he mocked. "Watching a man die."

He stepped over the body, his polished boots brushing against the edge of the pooling blood. The serpents swarmed the corpse, their hissing filling the air like a sinister melody. "Don't worry," Salazar continued. "It's always the first one that haunts you the most."

Salazar paused, his piercing gaze locking onto Rance, whose trembling form betrayed his growing terror. "You stand here, puffed up with self-importance, pretending to understand power, but you don't. Not real power. Not the kind that leaves a scar on the world."

"Here, in The Congregation, they might call Gryffindor the Lion of Ignis. A noble title, isn't it? But back where I'm from…" He trailed off, his wand twitching in his hand. The spear floated ominously at his side, its blackened metal catching the dim light in a way that made it seem almost alive.

"I've earned a name," he continued, his tone filled with grim pride. "A name my own people scarcely dare to whisper, not without trembling in fear of what it summons. To them, I am Donn. But to you," his amber, serpent-like eyes burning into Rance, "I am The Herald of Darkness."

Salazar raised his wand, the light in the room fading as though swallowed by an unseen abyss. The serpents coiled at his feet hissed in an eerie, synchronized cadence, a sound that slithered into the ears and pricked at the spine. His spear then angled forward with a sharp trill, aimed directly at Rance and his mercenaries. "And now, Gramont," he said, "it's time you learned why."