Vinda's eyes gleamed at the order. She'd been waiting for this moment. A sly smile curved her lips. "Yes, sir! I'd be honored to assist." With a sharp crack, she Apparated away.
Erwin lingered by the window, sipping his coffee. He needed a spectacle. The first strike in the German wizarding world would target the Solent family.
That's right—Erwin intended to obliterate them.
He'd already pinpointed their location. But this wasn't about Soren. If Erwin was right, that rat had fled the Selwyns long ago, vanishing without a trace. Over the years, Soren must have figured out Erwin's nature. He'd guessed Erwin wouldn't spare his old house. No way he'd slink back now.
Erwin's visit was pure opportunism—to see if he could stir up real chaos. Even if the Selwyns slipped away under cover of night, he wouldn't lose sleep. He wasn't here for a body count. No, he wanted the downfall of a prominent German wizarding clan to echo through the shadows: Erwin Cavendish had returned, and the Acolytes were with him.
...
The next day, on the edge of a dense forest, Erwin perched atop a massive dragon's head, Ebony coiled on his shoulder. Below, a cadre of Acolytes waited, some eyeing him with open curiosity—they'd never met the legend in person.
Before them loomed an ancient castle, the Selwyn stronghold. A few stragglers remained inside: family remnants who hadn't fled in time, plus their loyal wizards.
Erwin raised his wand lazily. A bolt of purple light lanced from the tip, shattering the castle's wards in a cascade of sparks. The dragon roared, unleashing a torrent of flames that engulfed the battlements.
Vinda's gaze hardened with bloodlust. "Kill them all!"
The Acolytes surged forward as one, spells crackling. Agonized screams pierced the air from within the stone walls.
Erwin watched from his vantage, the chaos unfolding below. As he'd predicted, the Selwyns had evacuated most of their kin. These holdouts—were they too slow, or Soren's desperate decoys? It hardly mattered. By day's end, the Solent name would be ash.
And Soren? He'd skulk like a sewer rat from now on. If Erwin caught wind of him again, there'd be no escape.
The thought ignited a spark of irritation in Erwin. A man with every advantage, and he still couldn't pin down one foe. If the other players in this game saw it, they'd call him soft.
The assault on Solent Castle passed without a whisper to the outside world. Outnumbered and caught off guard, the defenders crumbled. The Acolytes, starved for action after too long in the shadows, fought with savage glee. Not a single Selwyn survived. The castle burned quietly, without fanfare.
Then... Erwin felt it. A prickle at the edge of his senses. He turned south.
High in the southern sky, Soren hovered, eyes blazing red with fury. He locked gazes with Erwin, unblinking.
Erwin's lips twitched into a grin. Too far for a clean strike—if he lunged, Soren would bolt. Pointless.
He raised a mocking hand in salute, like old chums crossing paths.
Soren's face drained of color.
A black-robed figure at his side murmured, "Master, what now? Cavendish's forces are formidable."
"Head to the Demos," Soren snapped. "They won't tolerate the Cavendishes growing unchecked."
The robed man hesitated. "But can the Demos stop him? With Erwin's power, if he chooses to flee—"
Soren cut him off with a sneer. "He won't flee. I've got leverage. He'll come to me on his own terms—but not yet."
His scarlet eyes bored into Erwin, brimming with venom. "Just you wait, Erwin. The game's barely started. I underestimated you once. Next time, you'll get a real shock."
With a swirl of dark robes, Soren and his companion vanished.
Erwin stared at the empty sky, brow furrowed. Leverage, eh? He could guess what it was—an open secret to him.
The captives in the dungeon. And their identities? The Stewards—a servant line sworn to the Cavendishes, one of the lesser houses.
How they'd ended up there, Erwin couldn't say. But it was the only card Soren had left.
What Soren never grasped was this: Erwin wasn't like the rest. To him, any subordinate taken alive by enemies was already lost. Rescue depended on value, not sentiment.
Gazing at the inferno below, Erwin yawned. A hollow feeling settled in. The only wrinkle that intrigued him now: Was old Tom a Stewart? And if so, was Rivers tangled in it too?
He'd sensed the undercurrents around them for ages. But he trusted the pair. They were family, in all but blood—had pulled him from the brink more than once. Without them, he'd be nowhere.
So if they were keeping secrets, there had to be good cause. They hadn't confessed yet, which meant the moment wasn't ripe. Why push? Erwin would let it play out.
After torching Solent Castle, he turned to leisure. The trip's main aims were met. Time to unwind.
The Acolytes, though, stayed busy under Vinda's command, plotting to hoist Thorfinn Rowle up the ranks. No rest for the devoted.
...
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