Nightingale

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Sargeras stepped up beside Nightingale and tapped the tip of his wand lightly against her body. A wave of invisible air swept across her at once, washing away the grime that clung to her skin.

With one hand bracing her shoulder, he used the other to guide his wand in slicing open the fabric over her shoulder.

A savage wound stretched from her shoulder down to her back, its edges ringed with branching, black veins that pulsed faintly beneath the skin. Sargeras frowned slightly, then ignored her weak attempt to resist and tore away the blood-soaked cloak she wore.

"Vulnera Sanentur (May the wounds be healed)!"

A glow of emerald light flared into existence, and a thin trail of black smoke rose from the wound.

Dark magic injuries usually demanded specific counterspells to be healed properly. Fortunately, Sargeras wasn't lacking when it came to healing magic. Though the spell he'd just cast clearly hadn't worked well, he remained confident that he could deal with it.

"Episkey (Restoration)!"

A second flash of brilliant white light surged from his wand, but again the wound resisted. This time, Nightingale couldn't hold back a faint whimper of pain.

He raised his wand again, preparing to cast once more—only to be stopped by a weak tug on his wrist. Looking down, he saw her trembling fingers clutching at him. Her voice was barely audible, like a breeze slipping through dry leaves, "Safehouse… tree hollow…"

And with that, she collapsed into unconsciousness.

Sargeras looked down at her motionless form, silent for a few seconds, then snapped his fingers. Ripples of unseen force spread out from him, and soon, scattered fragments of silver-white hair and droplets of blood came fluttering through the air from various corners of the small town.

Gathering them carefully, he sealed each piece into a crystal vial. Only then did he lift the unconscious Nightingale into his arms and vanish with a shimmer of phantom light.

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Moldova – The Twilight Forest

A soft crackling sound split the air as Sargeras appeared before a towering oak tree.

The woman in his arms gave a quiet, drowsy murmur, but showed no signs of waking.

He gave the massive tree a slight nod and murmured an incantation in an old, obscure tongue. Immediately, the thick trunk of the oak rippled and sunk inward, forming a small hollow about two feet tall.

Inside, however, the space was far more expansive than it appeared from the outside. It was clear that a traceless Extension Charm had been cast long ago. Sargeras lifted his chin slightly, and soft, warm lights flickered to life, gently illuminating the interior.

From the ceiling of the hollow, a single branch dropped down and began to grow, weaving itself rapidly into the shape of a wooden recliner. Carefully, he lowered Nightingale onto the chair and laid her flat across it. Then he turned to the entrance and layered several powerful protective enchantments over it.

When he looked back, his gaze lingered on the unconscious Nightingale, and he couldn't help but let out a deep sigh. After all, dealing with a woman like her… could be seriously troublesome.

Veela were seductive and dangerous magical beings, most commonly found in Eastern Europe.

They typically appeared as breathtakingly beautiful women, with long silver-white hair, smooth flawless skin, and faces so striking they could steal the breath from your lungs. Sometimes, when unconscious, their bodies would even emit a faint, ethereal glow.

But Veela had another form as well—one far more monstrous in nature. They could transform into birdlike creatures, with sharp beaks, burning wings, and savage claws.

It was also known that they were capable of interbreeding with humans, and their offspring often inherited certain Veela traits.

And Nightingale… or more precisely, Veiliss Nixia—was one such hybrid. Her mother bore the blood of the Veela, and her father descended from the lineage of Snow Demons. The mingling of these two bloodlines had given rise to a strange blend of throwback traits and unpredictable mutations.

Before she crossed paths with Sargeras, Nightingale had spent most of her life hidden deep within the primeval forests of Moldova, far from any human settlement. She had chosen isolation not out of fear, but to keep her presence from inciting chaos. Her face alone could drive men to madness, filling their minds with obsession and desire.

Lifting her unconscious body with care, Sargeras pressed the tip of his wand directly into the wound on her back. The black markings beneath her skin gave a sharp, shrieking response, twisting violently before they began to peel away—slowly yet steadily—like layers of rot being carved from living flesh.

Dark magic oozed from the wound, drawn into the wand like ink dissolving into clear water. Sargeras felt a faint heat gathering at the center of his palm. Only after the last trace of that corrupted energy had been extracted did he realize that a sliver of the curse had slipped past the wand and seeped into his own hand.

That… was unexpected. Still, he wasn't particularly worried.

But when he lifted the wand to inspect it, he found the old yew wood had been corroded beyond repair. The shaft was warped, its grain eaten through by the lingering curse. It was no longer usable.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face.

That wand had been something he'd found in the attic of House Greenglass when he was a child. It had followed him faithfully since the age of six. Though it had never been a perfect fit for his hand, he'd never once replaced it all these years.

Setting the decayed wand lightly on the table, Sargeras brushed his other hand gently across Nightingale's back. The savage wound vanished in an instant, not even a scar left behind.

Two nonverbal spell were cast in quick succession, and the torn fabric of her clothes stitched itself whole again.

He laid her carefully back on the recliner, and just as he instinctively glanced toward her, he saw that her eyes had already opened.

Sargeras withdrew his hand without a word and gave her a calm nod. "The curse has been removed. No scars left behind."

Nightingale's gaze drifted to his right hand, where the dark veins of the curse still spread beneath the skin, but she didn't speak.

Frowning, Sargeras conjured a teapot and poured a cup of steaming liquid, offering it to her. "Those dark wizards shouldn't be able to cast curses that powerful. What exactly happened?"

Nightingale slowly took the cup. Her voice came out rough and hoarse. "Erios ambushed me… he stole the kraken heart you gave me…"

Sargeras didn't comfort her, nor did he scold her.

He simply spoke, steady and calm. "Then we have two people to find now. Kestrel… and Erios. My suggestion is we start with Kestrel."

As he said this, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a deep blue gemstone, about the size of a thumbnail. "Norwegian sea krakens have two hearts. As long as Erios is still carrying the one that belonged to you, it won't be hard to track him down."

Nightingale nodded faintly. She set the teacup down and gently took hold of Sargeras's right hand, now veined with those black markings. Then she fell silent for a long time.

"…Can it be healed?"

"Of course." Sargeras drew his hand back from Nightingale's, then, with a casual motion, snapped the decayed wand clean in half right there on the table. "If there's nothing else, I suggest we leave immediately."

As he spoke, he passed her three crystal vials—each one filled with a different trace of her essence: strands of her silver hair, drops of her blood, and the tears she had shed. "Keep your things safe. I'll be needing half of whatever potion you brew from them."

Nightingale blinked in surprise, then let out a soft, elegant smile. "You've found her trail already, haven't you?"

"No… but I know who has."

Sargeras extended his left hand. Understanding immediately, Nightingale reached out her pale right hand and placed it in his.

The moment their hands touched, the two of them vanished without a sound.

It was another short-range Apparition. In an instant, Sargeras and Nightingale crossed the border of Moldova and arrived on the Balkan Peninsula.

They made their way on foot to a secluded village, and with directions from a few locals, they soon found themselves standing in front of a Gypsy fortune-teller's tent.

Sargeras had barely raised a finger to point toward the tent when a harsh, venom-laced voice barked out from inside.

"Which filthy bastard just tried casting a spell on Seraphina Somberlin's tent…?"

Before the echo of her curse had even faded, the tent's flap was flung open, and a hunched old crone emerged, leaning heavily on a gnarled cane.

"I'll flay your skin and bind it into parchment, then boil your blood for ink…"

But her stream of threats came to a sudden halt. The wrinkled old witch froze mid-step the moment her gaze fell on Nightingale. Her eyes glazed over for a second… then slowly lit up with a glint of unfiltered greed.

"Ah… such perfect spellcasting material… Your hair would brew the finest love potion in the world…"

She slowly reached out a hand, blackened and clawlike, as if to stroke Nightingale's silver-white hair.

"Immobulus!"

With a flick of his fingers, Sargeras cast a wandless freezing charm, locking the old witch rigidly in place.

Then at once, stones rose up from the ground around her. A silent transfiguration spell reshaped them into sharp spikes, surrounding her completely in a ring of thorns.

"Now I ask. You answer."

Sargeras met her gaze with eerie calm, unbothered by the panic and venom flickering in her eyes.

"A month ago, outside Hoff's Apothecary in Bulgaria, there were two wizards in Romani travelers (Gypsy) garb camped in a tent."

His voice was flat, his tone unreadable, but his stare was cutting. "Tell me where they are. Now."

The old witch suddenly found her voice again—though her body remained frozen stiff. She made a feeble attempt to reach for her wand, but her limbs still refused to obey her command.

"Don't make me dig through your head for the answer. Trust me… you won't like how that feels…"

Sargeras spoke softly, as if offering advice, but something about his voice suggested there would be no second warning.

Whatever fear he had struck in her worked. Or maybe she was simply smart enough to recognize when she was cornered. Either way, the woman who called herself Seraphina Somberlin suddenly became much more cooperative.

"Let me think, let me think… Ah… I'll need a crystal ball…"

Sargeras opened his hand, and immediately three crystal balls of varying sizes floated soundlessly out of the tent and hovered before him.

"The smallest one. I need the smallest…"

The smallest of the three—a deep purple sphere—responded to her request and floated gently toward her. Only then did she realize she could move her arms again.

She laid her withered palm against the surface of the crystal ball. Instantly, the purple mist swirling within began to shift and stir. Her eyes rolled back, the whites expanding to swallow her irises completely.

"The mists shall show me where the children are… Oh, Wheel of Fate, if you are still turning, then I shall bury a coin where the ravens nest in laurel boughs. If not… let my name fade forever from the pages of this world…"

The images inside the crystal continued to flicker and shift, shapes forming and dissolving in an eerie dance… until finally, the vision settled on two Gypsies standing guard outside a run-down wooden shack.

That was all the answer Sargeras needed.

He turned to Nightingale and reached out his hand. She took it without a word. Their fingers brushed. Another sharp crack echoed as they disappeared, swallowed again by the burst of apparition.

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[Chapter End's]

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