The subordinate nodded curtly and turned on his heel, vanishing into the shadows. Moments later, back at the manor, every able-bodied Yaxley wizard gathered outside, wands raised skyward. They chanted in unison, weaving a shimmering Protego shield over the estate. The barrier glowed a deep, unyielding blue—far denser than the flimsy one that had cracked in Diagon Alley.
The Yaxley patriarch retreated to his study, his face etched with grim determination. He knelt before the fireplace and tossed in Floo powder. Flames roared to life, and an image flickered into view: Soren Solent, lounging indolently on a velvet sofa in some distant room.
Soren barely glanced at the hearth. "Out with it."
The patriarch dropped to his knees. "Merciful lord, that cursed Cavendish—along with Malfoy and Parkinson—has declared war on our pure-blood line. They've brought a hundred wizards to our doorstep. I implore you, help us, or the Yaxleys are finished!"
Soren's eyes widened in surprise. He straightened, a spark of amusement lighting his features. "A pure-blood war? Now that's entertaining. Give me the details."
The patriarch recounted the ambush, the public humiliation, and Erwin's ruthless escalation. Soren listened, his expression hardening into a scowl. "Idiot," he spat. "The boy's ploy was obvious from the start—to bait you into acknowledging a formal feud. And you fell for it like a fool. Pathetic."
The patriarch fell silent, the weight of his blunder sinking in. He could scarcely believe an eleven-year-old like Erwin had orchestrated such a trap. It defied reason.
Soren absently stroked the sleek head of a dragon coiled at his feet. "Fascinating, though. The Cavendish heir lives up to the hype. Even with their single-line inheritance, they've held the top spot among the noble houses for generations. His father was a force, and now this whelp... I'm intrigued by that bloodline. Does it sharpen the mind? Heighten cunning? So delightfully curious."
A twisted, manic grin spread across Soren's face, his eyes gleaming with unhinged fervor. The patriarch shuddered, averting his gaze.
Soren's laughter echoed through the flames before dying abruptly. He fixed the kneeling man with a piercing stare. "You fear me, don't you?"
The patriarch bowed lower. "No, my lord. Only the deepest respect."
Soren's lips curled. "I can't slip away from Germany without drawing eyes, but I'll dispatch aid. He'll integrate with your ranks—bolster your defenses."
The patriarch hesitated, his mind racing. "This... if I may—"
A crimson flash ignited in Soren's eyes. "A problem?"
"No, lord! Your will is my command."
Soren sneered. "Don't entertain any foolish notions, or you'll learn my wrath firsthand. My man arrives in an hour. Hold the line—don't let him fall easily, or your house forfeits its right to exist." With that, the flames guttered out, the connection severed.
The patriarch exhaled heavily, slumping against his desk. He understood the subtext all too well: Soren's "help" meant infiltration, a potential takeover. But with a hundred wands bearing down, the Yaxleys had no leverage. Among pure-blood houses, they boasted the largest numbers—enough to scrape into the top three. Yet even that couldn't stem this tide. Surrendering control was their only card.
Hatred boiled in his eyes. "Cavendish. Malfoy. Parkinson. You'll pay for this—every one of you."
Meanwhile, at the Solent estate, a black-robed figure approached Soren Solent from the shadows. "Will Yaxley withstand them, master?"
Soren shrugged. "Who can say? Probably. They've got a hidden ace—a volatile potion with nasty backlash. But desperation breeds recklessness; the old fool won't hesitate. And if it kills him? All the better. One less headache."
The robed man inclined his head. "Who do we send?"
"Grab one of our elite guards. Let's make this debut memorable for that Cavendish orphan. Pity I can't join the fun myself—I'd love a closer look." Soren's gaze turned ravenous, a faint red glow pulsing in his irises. Dark tendrils of magic seeped from his form, chilling the air.
The man shivered involuntarily, stepping back. Soren whipped around, baring his teeth in a feral smile. "Scared of me as well?"
The subordinate dropped to one knee. "Never, master!"
The aura receded. "Go. Now."
The man fled, pulse hammering, convinced death had brushed past him.
Soren unfastened his collar, peering at the grotesque black tattoo etched across his chest—now throbbing with crimson light. He drew a steadying breath, and it faded to dull shadow. "Time's running short," he muttered. "Must accelerate the plan."
He rose and approached a blank wall, tapping it with his wand. A concealed passage yawned open, swallowing him into darkness. He descended to the deepest chamber, where a iron-barred cage held a once-majestic creature: a unicorn, its coat dulled to ashen white, slumped in exhaustion.
Soren approached without pity. A casual flick of his wand sliced into the beast's flank. Silvery blood welled forth. He lunged, draining it greedily, fangs bared. The unicorn offered no fight, its eyes dimming to lifeless voids.
Soren shoved the corpse aside with his boot. "Wasted potential. Half a month per beast now—barely sustains me. We'll need fresh hunts soon. Where are the foals hiding these days? Slipperier by the year."
With a snap, he vanished. The dungeon's candles sputtered on, casting long shadows over the cooling remains.
Across the countryside, Erwin's forces crested the final hill overlooking Yaxley Manor. He'd left the Cavendish contingent behind—no need to risk family in this endgame. Casualties among the mercenaries? Acceptable losses. "They're advancing my cause," he'd tell the survivors, honoring their names if it came to that. But sentiment wouldn't stay his hand.
The manor loomed, shrouded in its reinforced blue dome—a classic wizarding bulwark. Erwin smirked inwardly. "Predictable as ever. But this Protego Totalum's no joke—thicker than Diagon Alley's veil, backed by more wands."
He clasped his hands behind his back, locking eyes with the Yaxley patriarch through the barrier. The man's glare burned with raw malice. Erwin met it with a cool, mocking laugh.
Then, with a casual wave, he signaled the assault.
...
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