Inside the sea-cave, the air hummed with the frantic bubbling of a silver cauldron. Aris worked with a surgeon's precision, his college-level chemistry merging with the logic of the Harry Potter System. He added shredded Dittany to neutralize the internal hemorrhaging and a concentrated extract of Moly to counteract the Dimeritium poisoning.
As the potion turned a deep, pulsating turquoise, Aris filled a glass vial. He knelt beside Syanna, whose breath was coming in shallow, jagged gasps. "Drink," he commanded softly.
As the liquid slid down her throat, the violent red sparks at her fingertips instantly vanished. The magical "curse" was replaced by a soft, golden warmth that radiated from her chest. Her fever broke in a cloud of steam, and for the first time in weeks, she fell into a natural, painless sleep.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
Task Milestone: Chaos Stabilized.
Reward: 200 Points.
Warning: Dawn is approaching. The Mages will notice the empty cell in 60 minutes.
Aris didn't rest. Re-applying the Invisibility Potion, he moved through the shadows of Blaviken like a vengeful spirit. He bypassed the perimeter guards of the noble's manor and slipped through a balcony window into the master bedchamber.
The Ealdorman—Syanna's father—was sitting by a dying fire, his head buried in his hands. He was a man mourning a daughter who was still alive, paralyzed by the "prophecy" of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.
Aris shed his invisibility in the corner of the room. The noble leaped up, reaching for a ceremonial sword on the wall. "Who goes there? Guard—!"
"Silence," Aris said, his voice magically amplified to carry an unnatural authority. "Your guards are asleep. Your daughter is safe. And your 'guests' are her murderers."
"What madness is this?" the noble hissed, his voice trembling. "The mages say she is cursed by the Black Sun."
Aris stepped into the dying firelight and slammed the lead mage's stolen diary onto the table. "Read the entry for three days ago. Read how they fed her powdered Dimeritium to mimic the symptoms of a curse. Read how they planned to kill her at dawn to 'study' her blackened heart."
The noble's eyes darted across the pages. As he recognized the mage's specific handwriting and the cold, clinical descriptions of his daughter's agony, the man's face went from confusion to a terrifying, pale mask of fury. He realized he had almost handed his child over to her executioners.
"Where is she?" the noble whispered, his knuckles white as he gripped the table.
"In a place where their magic cannot find her," Aris replied. "But by dawn, they will come to your door to claim her body. You have a choice, Ealdorman. You can play the grieving father, or you can use this proof to burn their lie to the ground."
Aris didn't wait for an answer. He vanished back into the night, leaving the noble with the evidence that would spark a revolution in Blaviken.
The sun rose over Blaviken like a bloody thumb, casting long, jagged shadows across the cobblestone square. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and a mounting, electric tension. At the center of the square, a wooden platform had been erected. The lead conspirator, a mage named Artorius, stood with his arms folded, his face a mask of practiced solemnity.
"People of Redania!" Artorius's voice boomed, magically amplified to reach every alleyway. "The hour of cleansing has arrived. Bring forth the cursed daughter, that we may purge the Black Sun from our shores!"
But the tower guards did not appear with a prisoner. Instead, the Ealdorman stepped onto the platform, his eyes bloodshot and his hands clutching the stolen diary like a weapon. Behind him stood a handful of mages who had not been part of the inner circle—including a wary, sharp-eyed Stregobor—who looked on with growing suspicion.
"There is no curse, Artorius!" the Ealdorman roared, thrusting the diary into the air. "Only your treachery! My daughter is safe, and your own hand has written the confession of your murders!"
The noble began to read the cold, clinical entries aloud. The crowd, initially huddled in fear, began to boil with a low, dangerous growl. The "good" mages stepped forward, their faces darkening as they realized their colleagues had turned the Prophecy of the Black Sun into a tool for genocide.
"Lies!" Artorius screamed, his composure shattering. "You would protect a monster? Then you shall burn with her!"
Artorius didn't plead for his life; he reached into the sky, his fingers clawing at the very fabric of Chaos. A massive, swirling vortex of purple flame erupted above the square—a Terminal Spell designed to liquefy the town and bury the evidence forever.
"Shield the people!" Stregobor shouted, slamming his staff into the wood. He and the uncorrupted mages threw up a shimmering dome of golden energy, but Artorius was drawing from a dark, forbidden source. The golden shield began to splinter like glass under the weight of the purple fire.
Aris, hidden at the edge of the crowd, knew the good mages weren't strong enough. He saw his parents, Marek and Hana, cowering near a fish stall. He saw the children of Blaviken paralyzed by the sight of the sky falling.
The Human Sage could no longer remain a ghost.
Aris stepped into the open. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a wand of polished Oak, its core hummed with the necromantic resonance of a Ghoul Tongue. To the onlookers, he was just a twelve-year-old boy, but as he raised the wand, the air around him didn't ripple with Chaos—it stilled into a vacuum of absolute law.
"Step aside!" Aris's voice rang out, no longer the pitch of a child, but the resonant tone of a master.
He didn't draw from the elements. He commanded the Harry Potter System to execute its finality. He pointed the oak wand directly at Artorius, who was laughing amidst his purple storm.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A jet of blinding, emerald-green light erupted from the tip of the wand. It didn't roar; it whistled with the sound of a falling scythe. The green bolt ignored the purple fire, ignored the magical barriers, and cut through the chaos as if it were smoke.
It struck Artorius square in the chest.
The purple vortex vanished instantly. The roaring heat died into a cold breeze. Artorius stood for a heartbeat, his eyes wide and utterly empty, before his knees buckled. He hit the dais with a dull thud—dead before his brain could process the flash.
Silence fell over Blaviken. The "good" mages lowered their shields, staring at Aris with a mixture of salvation and absolute terror. They had never seen magic that bypassed all defenses, a spell that offered no struggle, only an immediate end.
Aris lowered his wand, his breathing heavy. He looked at the villagers, then at the noble's daughter who had emerged from the shadows. The misunderstanding was cleared, the girls were saved, but the world now knew that a new power had risen in the North.