Douglas didn't use magic to make the axe blade razor-sharp in an instant. Instead, like an old-fashioned blacksmith, he honed it slowly, bit by bit, using the most primitive methods.
His movements were focused and steady, as if he were crafting a work of art, not preparing for war.
When the axe's edge finally gleamed with a cold, lethal light, he set it aside and produced a mortar and pestle, much like those used to grind spices.
"Every material has its own properties and flavor. Silver—cold by nature—can restrain a werewolf's fury. But pure silver is too harsh, it chips easily—deadly, but brittle."
As he spoke, he tipped a pinch of silver powder into the mortar, then added a few drops of thick, glistening dragon blood.
"Dragon blood—fiery, pure yang—is the best binder and enhancer. But a dish needs more than just its main and supporting ingredients." He sprinkled in a bit of black powder.
"This is the ash of Calming Vine. It delays, lets the 'flavor' linger longer on the enemy."
He ground the mix slowly, turning it into a viscous, silvery paste. The air filled with a sharp, earthy, almost electric scent.
"Now, let's flavor the weapons."
He dipped the tip of a feather into the silver paste and began painting tiny, intricate runes along the axe head.
"This rune of delay will slow an enemy's movements—even if only by a tenth of a second."
His tone was half-musing, half-instruction.
"In a real fight, a tenth of a second is all it takes to live or die."
"When I was at Hogwarts, I started a club—'The Society for the Care and Basic Enchantment of Magical Artifacts.'"
Douglas's voice softened with a hint of nostalgia.
"Professor Flitwick thought I was wasting time, stealing work from the goblins."
He picked up a spool of copper wire and began wrapping it around the axe handle.
The wire formed a strange, complex circuit—seemingly random, but precise.
"But I believe a wizard should know how to make every tool—not just his wand—reliable."
When the final loop was in place, he tapped the end gently with a small hammer.
Hummm—
The battered old axe let out a low, resonant hum.
A flash of silver flickered across the blade.
It still looked like a worn-out tool, but in the hand, a steady, razor-sharp power flowed from the copper-wrapped handle into the palm.
"Try it."
Douglas handed the axe to Aldo.
Aldo accepted it, skeptical. He gave a casual swing at a nearby boulder.
Thunk!
No thunderous crash.
The blade slid into the stone like a knife through cheese, leaving a cut as smooth as glass.
Silence fell among the elders.
Aldo had always thought Douglas was just a formidable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—skilled in spells, a master of potions.
But this—this was something else entirely.
How wise the elders had been, entrusting their fate to him.
Douglas didn't brew devastating explosives or enchant weapons with world-shaking magic.
He focused on the small, precise details—tiny changes that could turn the tide of battle.
He wrapped axe handles in leather soaked with calming draught, so warriors could keep a sliver of clarity even in a berserk rage.
He embedded slivers of tempered obsidian in spear tips, to subtly absorb dark energy.
Like the most efficient quartermaster, Douglas armed this ragtag army with care and cunning, using every scrap at his disposal.
Sharpening stones, the scratch of runes, and Lupin's steady breathing instructions in the distance wove together—a strange, powerful melody.
Hope was being sharpened, stroke by stroke.
Vengeance was being carved, rune by rune.
The Ashclaw tribe—once a wounded, slumbering beast—was awakening in Douglas's hands.
Its claws were being polished, ready for the moment when that vicious mongrel from afar would follow the scent of blood and hope into this carefully prepared hunting ground.
"Mr. Holmes."
A voice, old and steady, sounded behind him.
It was Aldo.
He stood there, confusion deep in his eyes.
Douglas didn't turn. He lifted the short blade to the firelight, inspecting every detail.
"Is something on your mind, Aldo?"
"You told us before to be cautious, to hide, to avoid attracting attention."
Aldo's tone was respectful, but the confusion was genuine.
"But now you've had Marco send out every scout, spreading news everywhere?"
"That's like lighting a torch in the darkness. It'll bring not just Greyback, but every watching eye—the Church, the Ministry… and those lurking in the shadows."
He paused, voice growing more earnest.
"Isn't this… at odds with our original goal?"
Douglas finally set the blade down.
Lupin walked over as well, wanting to hear the answer.
Douglas didn't reply at once.
He picked up a clean cloth and methodically wiped the last traces of silver paste from the mortar, putting it away.
Then he turned, meeting Aldo's gaze—sweeping his eyes across the gathered werewolves, all ears pricked.
Their faces were a mix of trust and uncertainty.
"Because the situation has changed."
Douglas's voice was soft, yet every word landed with perfect clarity.
"Before, you were desperate supplicants. I was a hired hand."
He paused, analyzing with a merchant's precision.
"Our relationship was one of equals. I help you, you pay me. The terms are clear, the responsibilities limited."
"In that arrangement, my first priority was the safety of my partner, Lupin, and myself."
"I would handle Greyback with the least possible risk."
His words were cool—almost cold—but the werewolves understood every syllable.
Then his tone shifted.
Something sharp as a blade flashed in those deep-set eyes.
"But now, with Chief Marco swearing loyalty to me on behalf of Ashclaw—"
"You've signed the agreement."
"From that moment, you were no longer my clients."
His voice wasn't loud, but it landed like a hammer on every heart.
"You are my subordinates. My—own people."
That phrase—own people—carried a strange and powerful weight.
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