The study in Morpheus's manor was silent, save for the low hum of arcane projection. Walls of dark oak reflected the golden candlelight, polished to a sheen. The hearth crackled faintly, warded for perfect warmth, and on a nearby sideboard sat a bottle of deep red wine, half-finished, two crystal glasses beside it.
In the center of the room, floating above a runed obsidian table, turned a slowly rotating three-dimensional map. It was astonishingly lifelike every ridge and forest ripple accurate down to the bending of individual trees. A delicate shimmer encased the eastern basin where the final anchor pulsed with faint golden light.
Herpo stood with a glass in one hand, his other resting lightly on the edge of the table as the terrain rotated beneath his gaze. He looked uncharacteristically thoughtful.
"This region feels… different," he murmured. "I remember there being a shrine around here."
Morpheus sipped his wine slowly, watching the golden pulse at the center of the projection.
"Mundane wars changed a lot, the landscape has changed but the Anchor and its protections persist." Morpheus replied
Herpo nodded, "The guardians, they still persist?"
Morpheus took a sip, "Indeed, they are in slumber awaiting to be activated."
"Ra. Anubis," Herpo said, changing the subject, "Have you heard of them? They could decide the fate of this anchor."
Morpheus shook his head, "They haven't made contact. Not since Thor's self-destruction. No signs unfortunately."
Herpo turned back to the map. The trees bowed slightly in wind.
"You'd think Ra would have something to say. Thor's fall wasn't subtle."
"Maybe they're bound," Morpheus said. "Or wary. Even Odin didn't walk away from the last battle. I must admit they did the brunt of the work."
Herpo snorted softly, swirling the wine in his glass.
"Or they're watching to see who emerges stronger. Their kind prefers to back inevitability."
He studied the anchor's pulse—softer now, like a heartbeat hidden beneath stone.
"Regardless, we'll need to factor them in. If they move against us when the veil tears again…"
Morpheus's voice was quiet, but final.
"Then we face them."
Herpo gave a small nod, raising his glass slightly.
"To the calm before the storm."
Morpheus returned the gesture.
"To whatever comes next."
The map shifted gently in the quiet, and the pulse of the anchor continued.
The crackle of the hearth shifted changed. The flames inside twisted green, and a sudden shimmer rippled across the fireglass screen.
A face appeared in the heart of the fire: sharp, solemn, and unmistakably tired.
"Are you two in?" Albus Dumbledore asked, voice edged with urgency. His eyes flicked between them. "May I enter?"
Herpo raised a brow, but said nothing.
Morpheus, without standing, extended two fingers and gave a small flick of the wrist. A nearly imperceptible pulse radiated from the manor's walls the wards folding just enough to allow a trusted guest through.
With a gust of displaced air, Albus stepped cleanly out of the fireplace, brushing soot from his coat and giving a courteous nod. The green flames behind him died instantly.
The wine still sat half-poured. The map of Asia still hovered.
But Albus wasted no time with pleasantries. He stepped forward, eyes heavy.
"I just left the Council," he said. "They're on the brink."
Herpo glanced at him, mildly amused. "Of collapsing?"
"Of legalizing dark magic," Albus replied. "For the remainder of the war."
Morpheus set his glass down without a sound.
Albus continued. "There was resistance, but not enough. After the last battle, after what happened with Odin—people saw what we're up against. Too many minds are changing."
Herpo didn't look surprised. "They're seeing the truth. Finally."
"They're scared," Albus corrected, pacing slowly toward the map. "And fear isn't clarity. It's desperation."
Morpheus studied him. "But they'll legalize it."
Albus nodded once. "If the vote holds tomorrow, yes. Controlled use. Battlefield applications only. Bound to certified warcasters under Council supervision."
"And Herpo?" Morpheus asked, tone unreadable.
Albus gave him a long look.
"Your name was raised more than once."
Herpo allowed himself the faintest smile, eyes gleaming.
"Well," he said, "it's about time."
Albus moved toward the hovering map, his eyes drawn instinctively to the slow pulse of the anchor. It cast a faint gold glow against his face, making the lines beneath his eyes look deeper.
Herpo leaned back slightly, swirling the wine in his glass. "It's not corruption that concerns them. It's the optics. Dark magic isn't inherently evil it's simply unrestrained."
"It's predatory," Albus said, turning to face them. "It bends the soul to the quickest route. And after the war ends, assuming we win—how many of those who've relied on it will know how to live without it?"
Morpheus raised a hand toward the map. "This war has reshaped everything. We're fighting entities who are magic creatures whose very bodies absorb ambient spellwork, whose existence drains wards. Tell me, Albus what do we use against that? A shield charm?"
Herpo nodded, smiling faintly. "Or would you prefer we throw courage at them?"
Albus didn't smile.
"I know the logic," he said quietly. "Believe me. I've made exceptions myself. But you are both old enough to know the weight of every dark curse cast. It stains. It lingers. The person who casts it rarely returns the same."
"That's fear," Morpheus said, calmly. "Not reason. If we win this war with honor but lose the world, what then? Should I tell the next generation that we died noble deaths when we could've lived by using the tools we locked away?"
"Not all tools are meant to be used," Albus said. "We teach restraint for a reason."
"And we fight extinction," Herpo said. "For that reason, restraint becomes foolishness."
The silence that followed was taut and thoughtful. The fire snapped softly in the hearth. The map continued to rotate, unchanged by their arguments.
Albus exhaled slowly.
"I don't ask you not to fight," he said. "Only to remember that winning the war is not the same as healing the world afterward. If we normalize darkness if we bless it through law it won't vanish when the fighting ends."
Morpheus looked at him across the rim of his glass.
"Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps, by learning to use it responsibly, we can finally master it."
"Or it masters us," Albus said.
He walked toward the fire but paused at the edge of the hearth, one hand resting against the carved stone.
"I'll stand by whatever the Council decides. But I'll spend every breath I have trying to make sure what follows this war isn't another."
And then, with a gust of green flame, he was gone.
The silence returned thicker now.
Herpo reached for the wine and poured a little more into his glass.
"I like him," he muttered. "But he's going to be a problem."
Morpheus said nothing. He watched the fire for a long time before finally turning back to the map, his eyes fixed on the golden pulse at its center.
"Only," he said quietly, "if he persists in this foolishness."