Dawn slowly emerged over the ruins of Volterra, tinging the cracked stones and a few collapsed columns with a pale red hue. The wind carried the smell of earth and ash, while shadows stretched like specters that refused to disappear.
Among them, Percival Graves stood, his cloak billowing behind him like an extension of his own body. His gaze fixed on the horizon showed no nostalgia, but rather a cold expectation. At his side, Vinda Rosier moved with the grace of a predator at rest, the fire from the torches reflecting in her eyes.
"So you found him?" she asked calmly.
Graves nodded slowly.
"Yes. It was Scamander, the same sentimentalist as ever. He hasn't changed one bit."
Vinda let out a soft, almost musical laugh.
"And yet he survived you."
Graves narrowed his eyes but did not reply.
"It wasn't time to kill him yet. He thought he'd escaped, but I let him go on purpose. We need him to carry the message, after all, fear travels faster that way."
Vinda smiled with an air of satisfaction.
"Good. Let him spread the word, let the rumors fly. Everyone must remember that the cause still exists."
The silence that followed was almost reverential. Both stared at the symbol carved into the floor, the triangle and circle intertwined with the straight line of absolute power.
The emblem of the Deathly Hallows burned, fueled by the residual energy of the last ritual.
Graves spoke without looking away.
"It's been too long, Vinda. Decades of waiting, of pretending. The wizarding world has grown weak. Ministries around the world are beginning to bow to No-Majs, and powerful wizards pretend to be docile in order to survive."
"And all that is about to change," she replied softly.
Graves turned to her, his eyes burning with determination.
"Our cause did not die, it merely transformed. The Alliance is not an army... it is an idea that has spread silently across the continents. Wizards, scholars, ancient families... all who remember Grindelwald are preparing."
Vinda took a few steps, her wand twirling elegantly between her fingers.
"We wait for the signal. Nothing more. We know he is still there, watching, waiting for the right moment to break free, and when Gellert decides to move, the Alliance will be ready to tear down the walls of Nurmengard."
Graves raised an eyebrow.
"And if he doesn't? What if what we saw in the ritual was just an echo?"
Vinda stopped in front of him, her expression hardening.
"You felt it, everyone felt it. That was not an illusion. It was his magic responding to us. Grindelwald was never a simple man... he was a force that cannot be extinguished by time."
Graves looked down at the emblem that still vibrated faintly beneath his feet.
For a moment, he remembered the first time he saw his Master. His soft voice, the way he spoke each word, his gaze that saw beyond dogma. He had been seduced, probably... but he had also understood.
"The greater good," he whispered.
"A truth the world forgot," added Vinda.
They both looked up as the sky began to turn golden. Between the clouds, a ray of light pierced the ruins, falling directly on the engraved symbol.
For an instant, the mark burned brightly, as if responding to his will.
The two looked at each other, knowing what it meant.
"It's a warning," Graves said quietly.
"No," Vinda corrected, with a barely visible smile. "It's a call."
They walked toward the exit of the amphitheater.
"Gather the leaders," Graves ordered. "Those from Europe, those from North Asia, those from South America. I want them to be ready."
"For when?" Vinda asked, even though she already knew deep down.
Graves paused at the entrance, gazing at the fire-tinged horizon.
"We must be ready for when he awakens."
The wind blew strongly, extinguishing the torches one by one. Only the symbol remained on the ground, burning faintly in the light of dawn.
In the heart of the mountains of Colombia, beyond where magical maps dare to draw borders, stood a place known only to a few. San Agustín was carved directly into the rock, covered with roots and lichens, hidden by spells of deterrence so ancient that they predated the Spanish conquest.
That night, The Alliance gathered.
Each hooded, the representatives of each magical cell sat in a semicircle around a central fire burning with a black flame, fueled by runes of control and salamander blood.
At the highest end of the enclosure, Vinda Rosier watched silently. To her right, Percival Graves kept his hands behind his back, his expression unreadable. To his left was an empty throne, covered by a white cloak.
Gellert Grindelwald's place.
Vinda's voice cut through the murmurs of the group.
"Brothers of the Alliance," she began, "We have remained in the shadows for too long. We lost the war in the past because we believed that everyone would follow us. Today, that mistake will not be repeated."
The torches lit themselves, one after another, until they illuminated the faces of those present.
There were wizards and witches from all over the world.
From the moors of northern Europe, the ruins of Greece, the temples of the Himalayas, and the coasts of Africa. But most were Latin American.
They were magicians with ancient blood, calling themselves modern shamans, heirs to the ancient magic of the Andes and the Caribbean. All united by a single thought: the magical world must be reborn.
Graves stepped forward, his voice resonating like a hammer.
"We find ourselves on the only continent that still breathes wild magic. Here, where the blood of ancient peoples still sings, the International Confederation lacks true control. There are no laws, no barriers. That is why we have chosen you to take the first step."
One of the representatives, a magician with a Portuguese accent, wearing a tunic adorned with Amazonian feathers, raised his voice.
"And what about Archmage Anayan? Won't he intervene?"
Vinda smiled slightly.
"Oh, he will. But even he understands that he cannot protect everyone. The magical communities here are divided, forgotten, scattered across their own borders. And where there is division... we will bring unity."
The black fire roared loudly, casting dancing shadows on the stone.
Graves raised a hand and silence returned.
"Our agents are already operating in three of the main Ministries. South America is the weak point of the magical world. Its structure is young, malleable, and above all, tired of following Europe's rules. Here we will build the new heart of the world. When our master awakens, the Alliance will not only free him... it will give him an entire continente"
A reverent murmur rippled through the amphitheater.
Some bowed their heads, others placed their hands over their hearts, whispering the oath:
"For the greater good. For a new era."
Vinda lowered her gaze to the black flame.
For a moment, she saw it change color, turning blue, like an eye watching from another reality. She said nothing, but Graves noticed her tension.
"Did you feel it?" he whispered.
"Yes," she replied softly. "It's responding to us."
Graves clenched his teeth.
The echo from the ruins of Volterra, the glow of the symbol, the sensation in his chest... it all fit together. Grindelwald wasn't just communicating, he was preparing.
Vinda raised her hands and the black flame spread until it covered the center of the enclosure.
Her voice rose, clear, powerful, charged with an almost religious fervor.
"May this land welcome us as the heralds of change. May the chains that bound wizards for centuries be broken and may the name of our master resound once more with strength."
All those present repeated in unison, in a chorus that made the air vibrate:
"For the greater good."
The fire went out suddenly, leaving only a faint glow on the stone. In the darkness, a new pact had been sealed.
Percival Graves looked up at the clear sky above the mountains, where a shooting star slowly crossed the firmament.
"Then... let the countdown begin," he murmured.
Vinda looked at him, her voice barely an echo in the warm tropical breeze.
"When the world awakens, the era of ministries will be over."
Hundreds of miles away, in the mountains of the Sacred Valley of the Andes, a dense fog snaked through the ancient terraces of Machu Picchu, hiding its temples and stairways under a white blanket. But high up on the mountain, beyond the view of Muggles, a golden glow pulsed in the air like an ancient heart.
In the center of that glow, a man meditated.
His robe was a deep brown color, embroidered with symbols that moved slowly as if they were alive. His black hair with silver strands, his eyes just as dark, remained closed.
Before him floated three orbs of pure energy, slowly spinning, representing the three pillars of Andean magic: earth, air, and spirit.
He was Anayan, the Archmage of South America, guardian of the balance between the magical peoples of the continent and the primordial forces that slept beneath its lands.
The wind changed.
A chill ran through the mountains, as if the mountain range itself had awakened. The stones vibrated, the condors took flight, and the orbs floating in front of Anayan darkened slightly.
The Archmage opened his eyes.
A golden glow passed through them, and his deep, measured voice was lost amid the echoes of dawn.
"So... they're finally moving."
He rose slowly, his feet barely touching the ground.
He extended a hand and the air distorted in front of him, revealing a liquid mirror of energy. Fleeting images began to reflect on its surface: the ruins of Volterra, the black fire of the meeting, the shadows of Graves and Vinda, and the mark of the triangle shining on the stone.
"Europe never learns... it always comes back to bite its own tail," he murmured. "But now its poison seeps into my land."
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening.
The magical echoes of the continent responded with unease, the spirits of the jungle stirred, the waters of the Amazon became unstable, and the stone guardians in the ruins of the continent whispered to each other.
The harmony of the south was breaking down.
"The fire of the north has gone too far," he said calmly. He raised the staff he carried at his side: carved from a single piece of wood, crowned by a large flame.
As it touched the ground, the sound echoed throughout Machu Picchu.
"Let the balance respond."
The wind swirled around him, translucent figures emerging from the mist. Ancient guardians and shamans, remnants of a time when magic and nature were one.
They all bowed before him.
"Prepare yourselves," Anayan commanded, his voice calm but firm. "If the echo of Grindelwald has awakened... the continent must remember who protects it."
A golden light covered the mountain. For a moment, all of Machu Picchu seemed to float above the valley, like a beacon in the mist.
As the energy spread across the Andes, the Archmage whispered solemnly.
"May the earth itself give me strength... if darkness walks again."
The wind carried his words away, beyond the peaks, northward, where the shadow of the Alliance was already beginning to spread.
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