Knights two and three attacked from both sides simultaneously. Godric dropped to one knee—both blades passed overhead. He rose spinning, his sword cutting both knights' hamstrings. They fell, wounded but alive.
A knight with a massive mace swung with enough force to crush skulls. Godric parried, the blade sliding along the mace's haft, then stepped inside the knight's guard and delivered a headbutt. Both helmets clanged. Both men staggered. Godric recovered first and thrust through a gap in the knight's armor at the armpit. The knight fell.
Five knights rushed him together. He couldn't dodge all of them. A shield bash caught his shoulder with a sickening crack—broken collarbone. His left arm hung useless. He switched his sword to his right hand, now fighting one-handed.
But years of experience, decades of dueling compressed into pure instinct, kept him alive. He defeated each knight through superior skill, better footwork, knowing weak points in armor. Trip one into another. Grab a pike shaft and pull the wielder off balance. Kick a knee to shatter it. Use pommel strikes when the blade can't reach.
He was increasingly wounded—cuts on his already-injured right arm, more broken ribs, a deeper scar on his face, a bad cut on his thigh that made him limp worse, an arrow grazing his neck. Blood everywhere.
But he kept fighting. Slower, sloppier, but unbroken.
Knights ten through forty-nine fell in a longer sequence of medieval weapons and techniques—war hammer, morning star, pollaxe, greatsword, sword-and-shield, dual wielding. Godric defeated them all through skill and experience, though he was taking more wounds, barely standing, exhausted beyond measure.
Finally, only Edmund remained. The captain and Godric, both wounded, both exhausted.
"You're extraordinary," Edmund said. "I've never seen swordsmanship like this."
"You're... not bad... yourself..." Godric gasped.
"My name is Edmund. Captain of the King's Guard for twenty years. I want you to know the name of the man you kill."
"I'm not... going to kill you... Edmund."
They circled each other, both limping, both bleeding. Then they clashed in sixty seconds of pure skill—strike, parry, riposte, counter, bind, break. Two masters trading blows. Equal in skill, but Godric was faster from experience while Edmund was stronger from being fresh and uninjured.
Edmund deliberately left an opening. It was a trap—if Godric took it, Edmund's counter would kill him. Godric saw the trap. He knew it was a trap.
He took it anyway.
He committed fully to the strike, then mid-swing dropped his sword and fell forward into a tackle instead. Both men crashed to the ground with Godric on top. Edmund's helmet was knocked off, his neck exposed. Godric's fist was raised.
Then he punched the ground beside Edmund's head instead of his face.
"You're a good man, Edmund," Godric said quietly, exhausted. "Better than your king deserves. Walk away."
Edmund's voice broke. "I... I can't..."
"Yes, you can. Your oath was to protect him, not die for him. You fought with honor. You lost with honor. No shame in that."
Godric stood and extended his hand, offering. Edmund stared at it for five long seconds. Then he took it. Godric pulled him up. They stood face-to-face, warrior to warrior.
"Thank you," Edmund whispered.
He stepped aside. The other forty-nine surviving knights, wounded but alive, did the same. They parted, creating a path. Godric walked forward through the parted knights. Some watched with respect, some with fear, some with both.
Bishop Wulfstan stepped forward to block his path, pristine white robes untouched by battle, holding his black ritual book and golden cross. "I am a man of GOD, demon! You cannot touch me!"
Godric kept walking, not slowing, not stopping.
"You created the Rite of Severance," Godric said. "You turned Eadric into a bomb."
"I saved his SOUL! Cleansed him of demonic—"
"You murdered him."
Wulfstan raised his cross. "Domine, protege me! Expelle hunc daemonem! Per virtutem—"
Godric's wand flicked faster than the eye could follow. The golden cross transfigured into a serpent, hissing. Wulfstan shrieked and dropped it, stumbling back.
"Your god isn't here, Bishop," Godric said coldly. "Just you and me."
Wulfstan fumbled for his book, opened it, and began reading the Rite of Severance. Dark green runes appeared in the air, sickly and wrong, reaching for Godric.
Godric raised his wand calmly. "I studied your ritual for two weeks, Wulfstan. I know every word. Every gesture. Every flaw."
His wand traced counter-symbols in pure white light. The green runes stopped, turned around, and headed toward Wulfstan instead.
"No... no! You can't! I'm protected! God protects—" Wulfstan's words cut off as the green light engulfed him.
He screamed. It was the same scream Eadric had made—primal, agonized, wrong. The runes branded themselves onto his skin. His faith, the core of his being, was being torn away. Cracks appeared on his skin with light pouring out.
Godric watched for five seconds, letting Wulfstan feel what Eadric had felt. Then he stopped the spell with a wand motion. The runes vanished. Wulfstan collapsed, gasping, alive but broken.
Godric approached and drew his sword. "I could finish it. Make you suffer as Eadric did. But I won't." He raised the sword. "Because I'm not you."
One quick thrust through the heart. Clean. Merciful. Wulfstan's eyes went blank and he fell dead.
Godric looked down at the corpse. "That was mercy. Remember that."
He pulled his sword free and continued toward King Cynric.
The king sat on his white horse, surrounded by cowering guards, his face showing pure terror. As Godric approached, the horse—sensing danger the way animals do—tried to turn and flee.
Godric raised his wand. "Stay."
A compulsion spell froze the horse in place. Cynric scrambled down and backed away, hands raised.
"Stay back! I am your KING! Anointed by God! You cannot—"
"Shut. Up." A silencing spell snapped Cynric's jaw shut. He couldn't speak.
Godric walked closer. "You know what makes you different from your soldiers? From Edmund and his knights?" Cynric shook his head frantically. "They fought for what they believed in. They stood in the front lines. They bled." Closer. "You hid. You sent others to die while you sat on your golden horse, safe in the rear."
His sword touched Cynric's throat, drawing blood. "You ordered the Godstone massacre. You gave Wulfstan permission to use the Rite. You turned a thirteen-year-old boy into a weapon because it was politically convenient." He pressed harder. "Give me one reason I shouldn't end you right now."
Godric canceled the silencing spell. Cynric could speak.
"I-I can give you anything! Gold! Lands! Title! Make you a Duke! A Prince! Name your price!"
"I don't want your gold."
"Then what? WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"
Godric's voice was quiet. "I want Eadric back. Can you do that?"
Silence.
"No. Didn't think so." He lowered his sword. Cynric's relief was palpable. "Thank you! Thank you! I'll—"
"I'm not letting you go." Godric raised his wand instead, aimed at Cynric's crown.
"You wore your crown while children burned. Let's make sure everyone remembers that."
Magic flowed. The gold crown began to glow—red, then orange, then white hot. Cynric screamed as the metal seared into his flesh, burning, branding. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air. Five seconds of agony.
Then Godric cooled it back to gold with a wand gesture. But the damage was done—burned into Cynric's forehead was a crown-shaped scar, permanent, blistered, weeping, that would never fully heal.
Godric kicked the crown away. It rolled in the dust and stopped, tarnished.
"Everyone will see this mark," Godric said with cold fury. "They'll know what you are. A coward. A child-killer. A king who hid while brave men died for his greed." He turned away. "Go home, Cynric. Tell your nobles what happened here. Tell them the cost of hunting magical folk. Tell them about the Lion who fought five thousand men and won."
He walked away. "And tell them that I showed you mercy. So they'll know the difference between us."
Cynric remained on his knees, branded, alive, humiliated. Worse than death.
Godric walked away, limping, bleeding, barely standing, but alive. He stopped and looked around at what he'd done. An aerial view would have shown the full scope: four thousand soldiers wounded, unconscious, or fled. Ten dark wizards dead. One bishop dead. One king branded and broken. Craters from meteors. Bodies everywhere. Blood and ash. Scattered weapons. Broken siege equipment.
His weapons fell from his hands. His wand slipped and clattered to the ground. His sword followed. He dropped to his knees, caught himself on his hands, blood dripping from his wounds onto the black glass.
His face contorted with pain—not physical, but soul-deep. His mouth opened but no sound came at first, just silent shuddering breaths.
Then the wail came—primal, agonized, the sound of a soul shattering.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Who was he apologizing to? Eadric? Anna? His mother? The soldiers he'd wounded? The dark wizards he'd killed? Everyone. All of them.
The wind picked up, and ash swirled in the air, forming patterns and shapes. For just a moment, faces seemed to appear in the dancing ash—Eadric's face, the two hundred dead of Godstone. Not real, just shapes in wind, but they seemed to watch with silent witness.
Godric looked up through his tears and saw them. "I avenged you. I made them pay. Does that... does it matter? Does it change anything?"
The ash-faces didn't answer. Couldn't. They weren't real.
"It doesn't bring you back. It doesn't undo what they did. It just... adds more bodies to the pile."
He looked at his hands, covered in so much blood.
Eadric's ash-face drifted closer. For one impossible moment, it seemed to smile—not sad, not accusing, just understanding. Then the wind took it, dispersed it, gone. All the faces faded, leaving Godric alone.
He tried to stand. Couldn't. Too injured, too exhausted. Fell back to his knees. His sword and wand lay beside him—both weapons that made him legendary, both that made him a murderer.
"I don't know how to come back from this," he said to no one. "I don't know if I can."
Silence. Just wind.
Then footsteps. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Godric looked up, exhausted, expecting another enemy.
Three figures emerged, walking through the battlefield, past wounded soldiers, past corpses, toward him.
They stopped ten feet away. A woman in midnight blue robes with constellation patterns, dark hair streaked with silver, carrying a telescope and book. A woman in yellow robes with warm brown eyes and practical demeanor, carrying a healing kit. A man in elegant dark green robes with sharp features and calculating eyes, his hand near his wand.
The woman in blue stepped forward gently. "Godric of Gryffindor?"
He flinched at his name and slowly raised his head. His eyes were red, hollow, the gold light gone. Just a broken man.
"My name is Rowena," she said. "This is Helga and Salazar. We're... like you. Magical."
Godric's bitter laugh was raw. "Then run. They'll come for you too. They always do."
Helga knelt beside him, ignoring the blood. "Let me help you. You're badly injured."
She reached for his arm. He pulled away violently. "Don't. Don't touch me. I'm... I'm not safe."
"You're hurt. Let me heal you."
"I just killed ten people. Wounded four thousand. I'm a monster. You should be running FROM me, not toward me."
Salazar stepped forward, his voice pragmatic. "You're not a monster. You're a survivor. There's a difference."
Godric looked at him with haunted eyes. "Is there?"
"Yes. Monsters kill for pleasure. You killed for protection. For justice. For children who couldn't protect themselves." Salazar gestured at the battlefield. "Was it brutal? Yes. Was it necessary? Also yes. They would have continued hunting magical folk forever if someone didn't make them stop."
"I didn't make them stop. I just... added to the violence."
Rowena crouched down. "No. You changed the equation. Before today, hunting magic-users was profitable, easy, risk-free. After today?" She looked around. "After today, every king will think twice. Every bishop will hesitate. Every dark wizard will remember what happened when they pushed too far."
Godric shook his head. "You didn't see Eadric's face. When he... when they made him reject himself. When he exploded. You didn't see..." His voice broke.
"We saw," Helga said gently. "We were on the hill. We watched everything."
Godric's head snapped up, shocked. "You... you watched...?"
"From the beginning. From your challenge to your victory. All of it."
"Then you know. You know what I am. What I've become."
"We know you're a man who's been pushed beyond his limits," Rowena said firmly. "Who did terrible things to protect innocent people. Who's carried the weight of protecting magical folk for twenty years with no help, no support, no respite." She met his eyes. "And we know you can't keep doing it alone."
"I don't want to keep doing it at all," Godric said quietly.
"Then don't," Salazar said.
Everyone looked at him. He continued, "What you did here—fighting, killing, protecting through violence—it's not a permanent solution. It's a stopgap. A message. But messages fade. Fear fades. Eventually, they'll start hunting again."
"So this was all for nothing," Godric said bitterly.
"No. This bought us time. Now we use that time to build something better."
"A sanctuary," Helga said, catching on. "A true sanctuary."
"Not just a hiding place," Rowena added, her eyes lighting up. "A school."
Godric looked between them like they were insane. "A... school?"
Rowena began pacing, excited. "Think about it. Why did Eadric die? Because he didn't know how to control his power. Because he was afraid of himself. Because no one taught him."
"Every magical child we've saved—they're untrained, frightened, dangerous to themselves and others," Helga said. "Not because they're evil. Because they're uneducated."
"And scattered. Easy targets," Salazar added. "One village at a time, picked off, burned. But together, in one place, properly trained, properly defended?" He looked at Godric. "With someone like you to protect them? They'd be safe."
Godric shook his head. "I can't. You saw what I became today. I can't be around children. I'm too... I'm broken."
Helga took his hand despite his protest. "You're not broken. You're wounded. There's a difference. Wounds heal."
"And you wouldn't be alone," Rowena said. "The four of us together. Each bringing different strengths." She gestured to herself. "I could teach them knowledge, research, theory, wisdom. Help them understand magic, not just use it."
"I could teach them healing, nature, care, kindness, hope" Helga said. "Help them learn compassion along with power."
"I could teach them cunning, strategy, potions, survival," Salazar said. "The practical skills that keep you alive in a hostile world."
All three looked at Godric. "And you could teach them courage," Rowena said. "How to stand up for what's right. How to protect those who can't protect themselves."
"How to be better than their fear," Helga added.
"How to be strong without becoming monsters," Salazar finished.
"I don't know if I can teach that," Godric said, his voice breaking. "I failed at it today."
"No. You didn't," Rowena said firmly. She pointed at the battlefield. "You could have killed every single one of these soldiers. Could have turned this crater into a tomb. Could have unleashed the full fury of your magic without restraint."
"But you didn't," Helga said. "You disabled. You humiliated. You terrorized. But you stopped short of wholesale slaughter."
"You showed more restraint in the midst of battle-rage than most men show in calm contemplation," Salazar said. "That's not failure. That's extraordinary control."
Godric looked at his hands. "It doesn't feel like control."
"It never does," Rowena said. "True control feels like you're barely holding on. That's what makes it control."
Silence. Godric looked at each of them in turn.
"Why?" he asked quietly. "Why do you want to do this? You don't know me. You just watched me slaughter people."
"Because we're tired of running," Helga said. "Tired of hiding. Tired of watching children die because they're different."
"Because knowledge without structure, without guidance, is dangerous," Rowena said. "We need a place where magical children can learn safely."
"Because I'm pragmatic," Salazar said. "Scattered, we're weak. United, we're strong. And a school—a proper school—would be the strongest union possible." He paused. "And because you're right. Someone needs to protect them. You've proven you're willing to do what others won't."
"Where would we even build such a place?" Godric asked. "The Church would find it. The kings would—"
"I've been having dreams," Rowena interrupted, excited. "For months now. A vision." The others looked at her. "A warty hog. Leading me north. To Scotland. To a castle."
Salazar raised an eyebrow. "A warty hog?"
"I know how it sounds," Rowena said defensively. "But prophetic dreams run in my bloodline. And every divination I've done points the same direction. North. Scotland. A place of power, where magic runs deep in the earth."
"I've heard of places like that," Helga said. "Old places. Where the borders between magic and mundane are thin."
Salazar nodded slowly. "Scotland is wild. Remote. The Church's reach is weaker there. The local clans still respect the old ways." He nodded. "It could work."
Rowena turned to Godric. "Come with us. Help us find this place. Help us build something that lasts. Something that makes what happened here—" she gestured at Godstone "—mean something."
Godric was silent for a long moment, thinking, weighing. Then he spoke.
"I need to make you a promise first."
They waited.
"If I do this... if I help you build this school... and if I ever become what I was today again—if the weapons fuse and I can't separate them—you have to stop me. You have to end it."
"Godric—" Helga started, shocked.
"Promise me," he said firmly. "I won't risk becoming a danger to the very children we're trying to protect. Promise me that if I lose myself, you'll give me peace."
The three founders looked at each other, uncertain and troubled.
Finally, Salazar stepped forward and extended his hand. "I promise. If the day comes when you cannot control the fusion, when you become a danger rather than a protector—I will end it cleanly."
Godric took his hand and shook it, sealing the pact.
"Then I'll help," Godric said to all of them. "I'll teach them courage. I'll protect them. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure no child ever suffers what Eadric suffered."
Helga helped him stand. He swayed, barely able to stay upright. "First, healing. Then rest. Then we plan." She began casting diagnostic spells, checking his wounds.
Rowena picked up his wand and handed it to him. "We leave for Scotland in a week. That should give you time to recover."
Godric took his wand. "What will we call this school?"
Rowena smiled slightly. "I don't know yet. But I have a feeling the answer will present itself when we find the place."
Salazar picked up Godric's sword, examining it. "Rubeum. The Red. A fitting name for a blade that's seen so much blood." He handed it to Godric. "May it see more peaceful days ahead."
Godric sheathed the sword. "I hope so. I truly hope so."
The four of them stood together in the center of the crater. Around them, wounded soldiers were being tended by their comrades. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the battlefield. The battle was over.
They stood together as the light faded—four strangers bound by purpose. A warrior haunted by what he'd done. A scholar seeking knowledge. A healer offering compassion. A survivor calculating the odds.
Four people who would change the magical world forever.
One week later, they would journey north to Scotland. There, guided by Rowena's vision, they would find a castle. And there, they would build something that would last a thousand years.
A school. A sanctuary. A home.
Hogwarts.
END OF PART 2
POST-CREDITS SCENE
FADE IN FROM BLACK
TEXT APPEARS:
"Twenty years before Godstone..."
"Kingdom of Rheged, Northern Britain, 970 AD"
EXT. ROYAL CASTLE - NIGHT
A magnificent stone fortress on a clifftop overlooking the sea. Torches illuminate massive walls. Banners bearing a raven sigil flutter in the wind.
INT. ROYAL LIBRARY - CONTINUOUS
Firelight flickers across thousands of scrolls and ancient texts. Maps cover the walls. Astronomical instruments gleam on tables.
A young woman sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open books. She's 18, with long dark hair and striking grey eyes that seem to see through everything. She wears simple scholar's robes—deliberately plain, not the royal attire expected of her station.
This is ROWENA, Princess of Rheged.
She's reading three books simultaneously, cross-referencing, making notes with a quill that writes on its own while she gestures with her wand in her other hand.
THE DOOR BURSTS OPEN
An older man in royal robes—KING URIEN, her father, 50s, stern face—enters with guards.
KING URIEN (angry)
Rowena! The suitors have been waiting for two hours! This is unacceptable!
Rowena doesn't look up from her books.
ROWENA (calmly, still reading)
Then they can wait longer. I'm in the middle of calculating lunar cycles and their effect on spell potency.
KING URIEN
You're in the middle of embarrassing this family! You are a PRINCESS! Your duty is to marry well, secure alliances, produce heirs—
ROWENA (finally looks up, one eyebrow raised)
My duty is to expand human knowledge. Marriage is a social construct designed to transfer property. I am not property.
KING URIEN (frustrated)
Your mother was the same way. Brilliant. Stubborn. Impossible.
His voice softens slightly.
KING URIEN
But even she understood that power requires alliances. You could marry the Duke of—
ROWENA (standing, suddenly serious)
I don't want power through marriage, Father. I want knowledge. Real power comes from understanding the fundamental laws of magic, not from which lord's bed I share.
KING URIEN
You're seventeen—
ROWENA
Eighteen as of yesterday. And I've already mastered transfiguration theory that your court wizards can't even comprehend.
She waves her wand casually. Every book in the room rises into the air, pages fluttering open, reorganizing themselves alphabetically by subject while simultaneously translating between Latin, Old English, and Runic scripts.
ROWENA (continuing)
I can calculate star charts three hundred years into the future. I've invented seven new spell variants. I've deciphered texts that have been locked for centuries.
The books settle back into perfect order.
ROWENA
Tell me, Father—which Duke's son can do that?
KING URIEN (torn between pride and frustration)
Your intelligence is not in question. Your judgment is. The Church grows more powerful every day. They're burning "witches" in the south. Our family's magical bloodline makes us targets.
ROWENA (her expression hardens)
Then we should FIGHT, not hide behind political marriages!
KING URIEN
We fight by surviving! By being useful to those in power! By—
He stops, realizing he sounds like Malachar's justification.
ROWENA (quietly, dangerously)
By collaborating? By pretending magic is shameful? By raising children who are taught to fear their own gifts?
She turns away, looking out the window at the night sky.
ROWENA
I've been having dreams, Father. Prophetic dreams. I see fire. Persecution. Children dying because they're different. And I see... something else. A purpose. A way forward that doesn't involve bowing to those who fear us.
KING URIEN (worried now)
What kind of dreams?
ROWENA (still looking at stars)
A warty hog. Leading me somewhere. North. To a place of great power. And... others. Three others. A warrior. A healer. A survivor.
She turns back to face him.
ROWENA
I don't know what it means yet. But I know it's more important than any marriage alliance.
KING URIEN (sighs, defeated)
You're exactly like your mother. She also had prophetic dreams. Also chose knowledge over convention.
He walks to a bookshelf, pulls out a small wooden box.
KING URIEN
She left this for you. Said to give it to you when you came of age and started asking the right questions.
He hands her the box.
ROWENA opens it slowly.
Inside: A simple silver circlet, unadorned but humming with ancient magic.
KING URIEN
Your mother said it enhances wisdom. Clarity of thought. It's been in her family for a thousand years. She said you'd need it for "what comes next."
Rowena lifts the circlet. It catches the firelight, shimmering.
ROWENA (softly)
The Diadem of Wisdom...
KING URIEN
She also said... He hesitates. ...that you wouldn't stay. That your path leads away from Rheged. Away from crown and throne. Toward something greater.
Rowena places the diadem on her head. Her eyes flash with sudden clarity—like looking through reality itself.
ROWENA (gasping)
I can see... connections. Patterns in magic I never noticed. It's like suddenly understanding a language I've been hearing all my life but couldn't speak.
She looks at her father with new understanding.
ROWENA
You know I'm going to leave.
KING URIEN (sadly)
I've always known. Since you were five and transfigured your nursemaid's cat into a raven just to "see if morphological transformation affects behavioral patterns."
A slight smile.
KING URIEN
You were never meant for throne rooms and state dinners. You were meant for... something else.
ROWENA walks to him, kisses his cheek.
ROWENA
Thank you for understanding.
KING URIEN
I don't understand. But I love you enough to let you go.
He turns to leave, pauses at the door.
KING URIEN
When will you leave?
ROWENA (looking back at her star charts)
When the time is right. The stars will tell me when. And where.
EXT. CASTLE BATTLEMENTS - LATER THAT NIGHT
Rowena stands alone, eyes gleaming, looking north toward Scotland.
She raises her wand, traces symbols in the air. They hang, glowing, showing maps and trajectories.
ROWENA (to herself)
A warrior who fights like a storm. A healer who mends what's broken. A survivor who sees angles no one else sees. And me.
She closes her eyes, seeing the vision more clearly.
ROWENA
Four founders. Four pillars. Wisdom. Courage. Loyalty. Ambition.
Opens her eyes, which now reflect starlight.
ROWENA
And somewhere... a castle. Waiting.
SUDDENLY—A VISION FLASH
Quick cuts, disorienting:
- A crater of ash
- A man with gold eyes standing alone
- Ten bodies in a circle
- A woman in yellow robes healing
- A man in green robes, serpents at his feet
- Four figures on horseback, riding north
- A warty hog in mist
- A castle on a cliff by a loch
ROWENA gasps, steadying herself on the battlements.
ROWENA (whisper)
Soon. It begins soon.
She pulls a small leather journal from her robes, begins writing rapidly.
VOICEOVER - ROWENA (reading her own words):
"Day of my eighteenth year. The visions are becoming clearer. I've seen him—the warrior. He will do something terrible and necessary. He will break himself to save others. And I... I will help him rebuild. Not just him. All of them. All of us."
She looks up at the moon.
ROWENA (determined)
I am Rowena of Ravenclaw. Heir to the Kingdom of Rheged. Keeper of the Destiny of Wisdom. And I will build something that outlasts all kingdoms.
A raven lands on the battlement beside her—her familiar.
ROWENA (to the raven)
Soon, old friend. Soon we fly north. To destiny.
The raven caws once, as if in agreement.
CAMERA PULLS BACK
Showing Rowena as a small figure on the massive castle walls, diadem glowing softly, looking toward her future.
FADE TO BLACK
TEXT APPEARS:
"Rowena's story continues in..."
"HOGWARTS LEGENDS: CHAPTER 2"
"Of Wisdom and Dreams"
FINAL IMAGE
Split screen showing four locations:
- Top Left: Rowena on battlements (Wisdom)
- Top Right: Godric in ash crater (Courage)
- Bottom Left: Helga among refugees (Loyalty)
- Bottom Right: Salazar in shadows with bodies (Ambition)
All four looking in the same direction—NORTH.
FADE OUT
END OF POST-CREDITS SCENE