From the letter, Wyzett pieced together several crucial truths.
First, the dark magical force known as the Obscurus must be unimaginably ancient—otherwise, it would never be called "primordial power" in the prophecy of the Isaian Society.
Second, the Isaian Society had, for reasons of their own, long orchestrated the isolation of wizards—driving them deeper into secrecy and solitude.
Wyzett even found it plausible that Gellert Grindelwald's campaigns against the pure-blood families were, at their core, countermeasures against the Isaian Society's machinations.
And finally, the previous Guardian, Serena Pendragon, had allied herself with Gellert Grindelwald to set certain events in motion. Both The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide and the wand that granted him the Oculus Magicae had been gifts from Serena herself.
The incident with Ollivander—which Dumbledore had partially concealed from him—had, in truth, been an operation targeting him from the very start.
This tangled affair, involving Dumbledore, the Swedish Ministry of Magic, the former Guardian, and the goateed mastermind, was the direct result of the prophecy mentioned in the letter.
As for the circus master who had been consumed... he had always been nothing more than a puppet, a tool to further the prophecy.
The Isaian Society, who had once opposed the former Guardian and her allies, must be a group of extraordinary secrecy—one that had incited Muggles and goblins alike to persecute wizards.
With these pieces in place, the circus master's actions made perfect sense...
Wyzett shook his head. How could anyone live carefree, knowing such a shadowy organization was lurking in the world?
Just then, a tremendous roar echoed from above—the sea was rising higher and higher, waves climbing until they blotted out the sky.
"They said... you can handle this as well," Dumbledore remarked, casting a glance at the swelling tide. "Is that true?"
"I need to get above the clouds," Wyzett replied, turning to Fawkes. "Fawkes, could I trouble you to take me up there?"
Fawkes dipped his head and gave a regretful shake, looking uncharacteristically downcast.
"Wyzett, there's magic up there that we simply can't use," Dumbledore said, gently stroking Fawkes' feathers. "You know what I mean."
"The magic is too dense—there's interference everywhere. Fawkes could fly up there alone, but he can't use magic to bring you with him."
Overhearing, Luna stepped forward. "You want to reach the clouds?"
She unzipped her backpack, revealing the long, spiraling horn of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack—and it was glowing.
The ruby-red horn seemed to breathe, pulsing with a living crimson light.
Luna's gaze was soft as she lifted the horn above her head. The red glow washed over her pale hands, and the horn rippled like a stone cast into a still lake, sending out ring after ring of luminous halos.
Eyes wide with wonder, Luna watched the dazzling waves of light, hope shimmering in her gaze.
As the halos expanded, a sound echoed from the direction of the World Tree—the faint crack of an eggshell, subtle yet deeply stirring.
Wyzett turned toward the sound. At the base of the World Tree, a fissure opened, and out strode a magnificent steed.
Its body was crystalline, as if sculpted from ruby; its hooves gleamed like sapphire, and its tail shimmered gold-green like a silken tassel. Its eyes sparkled with the brilliance of diamonds, a rhinoceros-like horn crowned its brow, and a silvery aura shimmered over its form.
The horse moved with regal grace—each step light as air, yet covering ground with effortless speed.
Only then did Wyzett notice: around each hoof flickered the phantom of another, so that with every stride, eight hooves flashed with red light, as if casting a spell.
Newt's awestruck voice rang out, "A Granian? Or... Sleipnir? Is this creature really not just a legend?"
With the World Tree now fully grown, the magical field that had blanketed the area dissolved.
Newt—with a burst of energy belying his years—dashed to the steed's side, beaming with childlike delight.
"Merlin's beard, you're beautiful..." He set down his case and raised his hands, speaking to the horse in a gentle, coaxing tone. "May I... touch you?"
The horse snorted, holding its head high, as if it hadn't heard Newt's request at all.
Newt sighed, a little disappointed. He respected magical creatures too much to press further without permission.
Just then, a small creature tumbled from his case.
It was covered in lustrous black fur, soft and well-groomed. Its long snout resembled a cross between an echidna and a platypus, and its round head was irresistibly cute.
Wyzett recognized it instantly—a Niffler, that notorious magpie of the magical world, obsessed with anything that glittered.
The Niffler spotted the steed's gold-green tail and immediately lunged, desperate to snatch the dazzling prize.
But before it could get close, a flash of silver lightning arced from the steed's aura, sending the Niffler tumbling away.
Newt deftly caught it, cradling the creature with a resigned smile. "You're all the same, aren't you?"
"Lightning magic... that's not a Granian's trait," he mused, studying the steed. "Granians are gray, but according to legend, Sleipnir is red..."
"Sleipnir still walks the earth?" He scratched the Niffler's head, gray smoke curling from its fur. "Lucky for you it's gentle, or you'd be in real trouble!"
The eight-legged steed strode up to Luna, towering over her and peering down as if weighing her soul.
Luna lowered her hands, cradling the horn before her, and asked softly, "Are you called Sleipnir? Or are you a Crumple-Horned Snorkack? Or... would you let me choose a name for you?"
The steed cocked its head, those dazzling diamond eyes swirling with complex emotion.
Luna mirrored the gesture, never breaking eye contact.
She hugged the horn to her chest, rose onto her tiptoes, and reached out to touch the steed's cheek.
Wyzett stepped forward in alarm, gently pressing down on Luna's hand. He'd just witnessed the steed's lightning—he couldn't bear the thought of her getting hurt.
Luna turned to him with a gentle shake of her head. "I think... it's kind. It won't hurt me."
Seeing her smile, Wyzett relented. He drew a piece of parchment from his pocket and transfigured it into a staircase.
"Thank you." Luna smiled, stepped up, and slowly reached for the steed's face.
Wyzett's heart pounded—he was ready to catch her at any moment, just in case.
But when Luna's fingertips brushed the divine steed, there was no flash of lightning—no harm at all.
Instead, the eight-legged steed shuddered as if struck by a gentle current. A single, brilliant tear slid from its eye.
Where the tear touched the ground, a sprig of mistletoe blossomed.
The mistletoe dissolved into motes of light, circling Luna once, then veering to sweep around Wyzett, before vanishing into the air...
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