"We followed them closely—"
Sirius's face appeared in the magic hand mirror. Through the slivers of daylight hidden by dense jungle, Sean could see Mr. Black's grave expression.
"After stopping for half a day at a graveyard in Little Hangleton, they went all the way to Albania—Mr. Green, the Pensieve has already been sent to you. I imagine it will be far more detailed than my description—"
Lupin clearly knew better than Sirius what ought to be said.
"Little Hangleton's graveyard… Albania…"
Sean frowned, sorting through the information.
What was in the graveyard at Little Hangleton?
There was no need to dwell on that. Old Riddle was buried there, and so was the bone Voldemort needed for his resurrection.
So Voldemort was about to resurrect himself?
The young wizard lowered his head slightly.
Should he stop Voldemort?
If he interfered with Voldemort's resurrection, what would Voldemort do?
If he did not die there, if he revived again, if he hid in the shadows—
Voldemort practiced absolute terrorism. Once he realized he had been defeated, what kind of madness would he unleash?
Destroying Hufflepuff's Cup would not be difficult. But that unknown, inexplicable Horcrux made Sean hesitate again and again, preventing him from cutting off Voldemort's resurrection in advance.
He did not fear a resurrected Voldemort, but he was unwilling to gamble.
Because—
He looked seriously at Hogwarts Castle.
Every wizard here was alive.
The loyal and kind Hufflepuffs, the wise and restrained Ravenclaws, the sometimes foolish yet always brave Gryffindors, and the Slytherins too—
When Voldemort went completely mad, whose parents would the people he harmed be? Whose children?
He thought of Grandpa Marcus.
The old wizard who always laughed so warmly.
He had said he would always go to the battlefield.
Even though he was already so old.
"Mr. Green—Mr. Green—I hope you are not distracted. We don't have much time. They are going to act again. I hope that after you receive the Pensieve, you can issue orders soon—"
The communication ended just as Sean came back to himself.
After a brief pause, he opened the magic hand mirror again.
[Three Houses Missing One]
[Sean Green: The operation has been moved up.]
[Justin Finch-Fletchley: Understood. I'll go to the castle entrance immediately. Hermione, what about you?]
[Hermione Granger: My hands are shaking. Are we really breaking into Gringotts like this?! I've already skipped class. Don't be slower than me, Justin.]
"Ha…"
Sean exhaled softly. His figure disappeared into the end of the corridor, into the shadows of a group of noisy young wizards.
The Albanian forest was draped in lead-gray mist at the end of February.
Snow had not yet fallen, but the air was already as cold as shattered glass.
Tall, bare beech trees creaked in the wind, their groans passing through the dense forest like some kind of warning.
A figure wrapped in a black cloak moved through the trees.
He walked very slowly. The hood of his cloak was pulled low, hiding most of his face and revealing only a few strands of long silver-white hair.
Albus Dumbledore stopped.
Before him stood a small stone cottage swallowed by moss and vines. It was so old it barely held its shape, only its chimney still stubbornly pointing at the sky like a tombstone. But he noticed there was no dust on the front door handle.
Someone had been here. Recently.
He pushed the door open very gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.
Inside, it was dark and damp. The smell of mold mixed with something older, more rotten.
Yet beyond the toppled tables and chairs and broken glass, he saw something else.
A fire pit.
It had not been burned out for long. The ashes were still warm.
Dumbledore crouched and brushed his fingertips over the edge of the ashes.
A faint point of light glowed on his fingertip like a firefly, then scattered into the air.
"It is Dark Magic, indeed,"
he murmured.
"But very weak. Weak enough to be… pitiful."
The thought made even him pause slightly.
Pity.
For Voldemort.
He stood and looked around the abandoned cottage.
More than fifty years ago, young Tom Riddle had killed the Riddle family in a house like this.
Back then, Tom had been ambitious, yet his hands had already been covered in blood.
Now, that man had returned to the starting point, returned to the Riddle House.
Like a poisonous snake retreating to its nest to lick its wounds.
Dumbledore closed his eyes.
He knew what he was doing.
He was not the bravest of men—though he did possess more than enough courage—but this move had to be made by him.
That child was too young.
Despite his extraordinary talent, despite the prophecy already pointing out his path, that child was not yet enough to face a Dark wizard who, in despair, would do anything mad.
"Before that, someone needs to scout ahead and clear the obstacles."
Dumbledore's voice echoed softly through the empty cottage.
"Oh, what a fine assignment. Enough to occupy a wizard's old age."
He took something from within his cloak. It was a long sword, its blade covered in scarlet velvet, like a sleeping flame.
The sword of Gryffindor.
Dumbledore knew it would be bait Voldemort could not resist—a weapon that could kill Horcruxes, a relic of Godric Gryffindor himself.
For a Dark Lord who had lost most of his soul fragments and desperately needed comfort, this temptation would be impossible to resist.
He gently set the sword beside the ashes, then stood.
"Come, Tom,"
he said softly.
"Let us see exactly how many pieces of soul you have left."
At the same time, at the other end of the forest, in a snowstorm-swept town in northern Albania, the lights of a tavern glowed dimly.
This tavern was called the Snake and Lion, a gathering place for traveling merchants and local hunters.
There were not many customers tonight. Only a drunk old man snored over a table in the corner, and a woman in a traveling cloak sat beside the bar.
The woman was young, blond, and travel-worn, but her eyes were sharp and alert.
Her name was Bertha Jorkins, an employee of the British Ministry of Magic.
She should have been on holiday, but an "important lead" had drawn her to this godforsaken place.
The lead said there was an unreported disappearance.
A Dark wizard named Peter Pettigrew had appeared near the Bulgarian border.
Bertha Jorkins was a serious person. Too serious. And that was going to kill her.
She did not notice something moving in the shadows behind her.
There were two snakes.
One was a true snake—plump, with dark belly scales, the scent of death lingering in the damp air around it.
The other snake occupied a man's shell, wrapped in a heavy black cloak, holding in his arms a formless creature like a curled-up infant.
Peter Pettigrew was trembling.
"Mas—Master—"
he stammered, his voice as low as an insect's chirp.
"This—this woman, she—she is from the Ministry—she—"
"She is looking for you."
Voldemort's voice came from that red, curled lump of flesh, hoarse, like dead leaves scraping over the ground.
"And just now, she found you, Wormtail."
Pettigrew shuddered so violently he nearly dropped the thing in his arms.
"No, no! Master, I—I have been careful! I swear! I didn't—I didn't!"
"Quiet."
The voice was not loud, but Pettigrew went instantly silent as if someone had seized him by the throat.
Voldemort—that monster—shifted slightly in Wormtail's arms.
A long, narrow scarlet pupil lit up from within the swaddling, staring at the woman in the tavern.
"This is not a trap set by the Ministry,"
Voldemort said slowly.
"No Aurors are secretly protecting her, no tracking spells. She is alone. A foolish, hardworking little clerk.
"Did we not just examine her mind?"
A chill shot up Pettigrew's spine.
He knew that tone too well.
It was the tone his master used when scheming.
The tone before killing.
"Mas—Master—we just modified her memory—shouldn't we—shouldn't we—"
"Shouldn't we what, Wormtail? Run away?"
A trace of amusement entered Voldemort's voice. It was something more terrifying than anger.
"According to your description, I have already lost so much to that wizard—"
He spoke very slowly, as if savoring every word.
"Tell me, Wormtail. What should a Dark wizard do when he is nearly driven into a corner?"
Pettigrew did not dare answer.
"I asked what he should do."
Voldemort repeated, this time in an even lower voice, carrying an icy killing intent.
"I will bring her back again."
Pettigrew finally squeezed out a few words.
"Good. You are not completely beyond saving."
That scarlet eye turned toward the witch in the tavern.
"But Master, allow me one last word. Bertha Jorkins's disappearance will soon attract attention. If we continue, if I—"
Pettigrew felt the world spin.
"If? If you follow my plan, Wormtail, the Ministry will never know who else died. You will do it quietly, without making a fuss. I do wish I could act personally, but in my current state—
"Come here, Wormtail. Just one more death, and there will be no obstacle on our road. I am not asking you to act alone. By then, my faithful servant will join us."
"I am a faithful servant."
Wormtail said, a faint trace of displeasure in his trembling voice.
"Wormtail, I need someone with brains. Someone absolutely loyal to me, someone who never wavers. And you, unfortunately, meet neither requirement."
"I found you,"
Wormtail said, with obvious flattery in his voice.
"I was the one who found you. I was the one who just found Bertha Jorkins."
"That is true,"
the monster said in a teasing tone.
"I did not expect you to say something so clever, Wormtail. But honestly, when you brought that woman here, you did not realize how useful she was, did you?"
"I—I knew she would be useful, Master—"
"Liar,"
the monster said again, that cold teasing tone even more obvious.
"Still, I do not deny that the information she provided was valuable. Without that information, I could not have devised my plan.
"As for that, Wormtail, you will receive your reward. I shall allow you to complete a very important task for me, one that many of my followers would fight to perform—"
"R-really, Master?"
Wormtail's voice became frightened again.
"Ah, Wormtail, would you ruin this unexpected delight? Or do you think we have waited a long time?
"Oh, it has not been long. You see, we have not yet waited for that person—but I promise you, waiting is effective. You will have the honor of being as useful as Bertha Jorkins."
"You—you—"
Wormtail's voice suddenly turned hoarse. His mouth seemed to have gone very dry.
"You—you want—to kill me too?"
"I would never kill my loyal servant—"
the monster's voice grew smoother.
"If he is truly as loyal as he appears—"
"Loyal—"
Not far from Gringotts, Sean frowned tightly.
Justin and Hermione calmly stood around him, waiting anxiously for the young wizard who had been "interrupted by urgent business."
The sky had already begun to darken. In a short while, Gringotts would nearly be closing.
"Hermione, Justin—"
Both of them turned at once, then froze slightly.
They had never seen Sean like this before.
He looked at them calmly, yet from those familiar eyes, they read his solemnity.
That attitude, as if facing a great enemy, and that low voice—
"The operation, I'm afraid—"
"Absolutely not!"
Hermione immediately snapped.
"That's right, Sean. We planned this for so long—"
Justin said in a low voice.
"If you can't get away, we can do it ourselves. Sean, don't underestimate us."
Sean fell silent.
He was thinking.
Had Pettigrew been exposed?
When?
The goblin contract had directly altered Pettigrew's memories. Such a contract, even in Teacher Ravenclaw's memories, had almost no possibility of leaking.
Because it used magic completely different from wizard magic.
Then how had Voldemort discovered Pettigrew?
Or was this merely a warning?
Voldemort had always known Pettigrew was not absolutely loyal.
Sean's eyes darkened even more.
And Bertha Jorkins. At this point in time, she really should be in Albania.
As for how Voldemort had found her, Sean's memory provided no clues.
More importantly, Voldemort planned to kill her.
Sean had assumed that after Voldemort returned to the Riddle House, such a thing would not happen.
But Voldemort had returned again.
Sean sharply noticed the snake beside Voldemort.
Was that the Horcrux Voldemort wanted to create?
Was that why he needed to kill someone?
Could one soul fragment be split twice in a short time?
Sean guessed not.
That meant Voldemort had not yet created a Horcrux?
Sean felt his heart must be pounding violently.
But the words "he remains cunning" still lingered beside Sean's ear.
Voldemort had another servant. That person's appearance could not be merely an accident.
Even in the original story, after Voldemort returned to the Riddle House, he had made Nagini into a Horcrux.
What about now?
Would this even more cunning Voldemort really have gone until now without creating a Horcrux?
"Sean?"
A call pulled Sean back to reality.
Looking at Justin and Hermione's worried faces, Sean silently gathered his attention.
"Leave it to us."
Justin smiled.
As if breaking into Gringotts were merely a simple History of Magic assignment.
Hermione's body was trembling slightly. It was hard to say how much of it was nervousness and how much was excitement.
Sean recalled the entire plan.
Entering Gringotts was not especially difficult. Walking all the way to the vault door could not be considered a hard task either.
But—
that was only for Sean.
Justin and Hermione were only fourteen-year-old young wizards.
Not to mention, without Sean, they would need a goblin to open the vault.
Capturing a goblin was not easy, even though they had considered a method in the backup plan.
"You are doing something very dangerous."
Sean sighed.
From the moment he had noticed that scene until now, his consciousness had never left Pettigrew.
He saw that Pettigrew and the others were about to act—
"Oh, that's strange,"
Justin smiled gently.
"On that point, we seem to have been doing dangerous things all along."
"Mm-hm."
Hermione nodded, her cheeks flushed.
Gringotts at dusk was shrouded in dimness. The huge white building towered there like the skull of some enormous creature.
"Bai Yi."
Sean softly called.
The pure-white owl flew out of the wizard book and reluctantly landed on Justin's shoulder.
"Tira."
Hermione cried out in surprise, only then realizing that a slow-moving Bowtruckle was clinging to her arm.
"Then—"
Sean looked a little hesitant.
"Quick, Justin!"
Hermione had already walked away excitedly.
Justin hurriedly followed her.
After the two had gone some distance, Hermione's excitement gradually turned into a little panic.
"We can do this."
she said.
"Of course."
Justin answered firmly.
Sean watched them from afar, then stepped into a hidden corner.
Albania.
The tavern.
Pettigrew's face was flushed.
He had not noticed the scrutiny hidden in Voldemort's words. He only noticed that Voldemort had not immediately ordered a killing.
That seemed to give him the courage to speak.
"If—if we are going to act, Master—perhaps not now."
He lowered his voice, speaking faster and faster.
"This place is too remote. There are no other customers. If she disappears, the Ministry will trace it to this tavern immediately. We have hidden in Albania for so long. We cannot expose ourselves at the final step—"
He stopped.
Because he suddenly realized what he was saying.
He was still opposing his master.
He was still advising his master, the Dark Lord who killed without blinking, not to kill.
Fear poured over him like ice water.
He would die for this sentence.
He would definitely die for this sentence.
But Voldemort did not kill him immediately.
"Interesting."
The scarlet gaze lingered on Pettigrew's face for a long time.
So long that Pettigrew felt his heart had stopped. So long that even the sound of the witch at the bar setting down her cup seemed like a bolt of lightning.
Then Voldemort laughed softly.
"You are right, Wormtail."
Voldemort's voice was as soft as a snake flicking its tongue.
"But we need a murder. You know this very well. Without a sufficiently dark murder, without thoroughly playing with death, I cannot obtain enough power to complete my resurrection."
Pettigrew trembled all over. He did not know whether Voldemort was testing him or seriously considering it.
He only knew that his heart was beating far too fast, as if his ribs were about to break free from his chest.
"Perhaps—"
His lips moved, but the voice sounded like someone else's.
"Perhaps we can wait—wait for her to leave the tavern, somewhere she won't be discovered immediately. Maybe in another town, or somewhere else—it doesn't matter. What matters is that Master's safety must be absolutely guaranteed."
After saying that, he felt a strange sensation.
As if he had said something correct without even knowing it himself.
Voldemort was silent for a long time.
Pettigrew did not dare breathe.
He knelt there with his head lowered, feeling that scarlet gaze stab inch by inch into his skull like two red-hot iron nails.
"Very good."
Voldemort finally spoke.
"Your loyalty may still be worth testing. But she is the right target. Still, you are right—not here.
"When she leaves, we follow."
Pettigrew nearly collapsed to the ground.
Inside his mind was a more complex emotion he could not understand.
It was as if his body felt relieved on behalf of thoughts that were not his own, while his consciousness had not yet caught up.
Night fell completely.
The witch sat at the bar for a while longer, then paid, stood, and walked toward the door.
Pettigrew kept his head lowered, pretending to drink the cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
He did not dare look at her. Even though Voldemort had said he would not kill her here, he still did not dare look at her face.
The witch pushed open the door.
Cold wind poured in, carrying the raw smell of snow.
Then she stopped.
"You."
she said.
Pettigrew lifted his head and met her gaze.
Those blue eyes stared at him with a complicated expression somewhere between sympathy and vigilance.
"You've been sitting there since this afternoon. You haven't moved at all. What are you waiting for?"
Pettigrew opened his mouth.
He should lie.
He should invent a reason, any reason—he was lost, he was waiting for someone, he was mute, anything.
But he did not.
He said something else.
The words slipped from his mouth naturally, smoothly, as if rehearsed countless times.
"Leave here quickly."
he whispered.
"Immediately. Don't look back. Don't Apparate to the next town—go straight back to Britain."
The witch froze.
Pettigrew himself froze too.
He did not understand why he had said it.
That should not have been what he said.
It shouldn't.
But his mouth was still moving. His lips seemed to have a will of their own, completely beyond his control.
"You've been targeted."
he said.
"Go while you still can. Now. Right now."
The witch stared at his face.
She saw it—those always damp, rat-like eyes were now filled with pure fear.
That fear was too real, so real that she instinctively believed it.
She no longer hesitated. She grabbed her bag and Apparated in an instant, vanishing completely into the darkness beyond the door.
Only the wind and Pettigrew's violent heartbeat remained in the tavern.
Pettigrew knelt there.
His hands were braced against the cold floor, and he gasped for breath, his mind blank.
He had let her go. He had really let her go.
Why? Why had he done that?
But he had no time to understand. Because in his arms, Voldemort laughed.
The laugh was extremely soft, extremely cold, like a snake sliding over dead leaves on a winter night.
"Wormtail."
Voldemort said. The servant beside him calmly took him from Wormtail's arms.
"While I waited, you were restless. When I was ready to kill her, you let her go."
Pettigrew opened his mouth.
He did not understand.
He had absolutely no memory of what he had said.
Had he said to let her go? Had he said such things?
He desperately tried to remember, but his mind was chaos, as if someone had stirred it with a finger.
A tear rolled from his eye.
He did not know why he was crying.
Was it because of fear? Yes, and yet not quite.
Was it because the woman was going to die? Yes, but she had clearly survived.
Was it because he had betrayed his master? Yes, but twelve years ago, when he had betrayed James and Lily, he had not shed a single tear.
"I don't know—"
he murmured mechanically.
"Master—I don't know—I didn't mean to let her go—I—how could I—"
Pettigrew knelt there, his face covered in tears, futilely searching for any words that could explain himself.
He truly did not know why he had let her go, nor did he know where the anxiety that did not belong to him had come from.
In the end, he could only stammer out a sentence:
"I—I only felt that Master should not take such a great risk for one prey—Master has suffered such heavy injuries. If something unexpected happened again—I could not accept it—"
"You don't know."
Voldemort repeated, as if savoring the taste of those words.
Then his voice became calm, the kind of dark, bottomless calm.
"But you did it, Wormtail. You let the prey go at a foolish yet correct time."
Pettigrew trembled all over, his mouth open, unable to make a sound.
Voldemort said softly,
"He is not here, Wormtail. But he has been here. He has always been in your mind.
"From long ago, from the first moment you came to my side."
Pettigrew's eyes suddenly widened.
He did not understand those words.
He did not know someone had been inside his mind. He dared not believe it.
But lightning split open his thoughts. In the moment he had let her go, that naturalness, that involuntary feeling—that had not been his will.
Someone had been speaking through his mouth.
And from beginning to end, he had thought it was his own idea.
"Sorry to disappoint you, my servant. It was his pity for life that let her run away through you. I saw it clearly from start to finish. And that was exactly the answer I needed. Ah—what a kind and weak wizard. He would rather expose you than let her die."
Pettigrew opened his mouth. He wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, to say the words he had never had the chance to say.
But he knew it was too late. From the moment the first thought had been planted in his mind, it had already been too late.
"You still have one final use, Wormtail. You brought me back to this world. You will offer me the final death."
Outside the tavern, the wind and snow grew more violent.
The dead branches wrapped in snow were pressed by the wind into folds of varying depths, as if the entire forest were whispering in the darkness.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The earth beneath Wormtail's feet split open. He watched in terror as a tiny wisp of dust rose at the hooded man's summons and drifted gently into the cauldron.
The diamond-like surface broke, hissing and spitting sparks. The liquid turned a vivid blue, obviously poisonous at a glance.
Wormtail was sobbing.
The hooded figure drew a long, thin, silver-glinting dagger from his cloak.
"Flesh—of the servant—w-willingly given—you will revive your master."
The man stretched out his right hand, then gripped the dagger tightly in his left and swung it toward the right.
Wormtail only realized what the man was about to do in the final second. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could not block out the scream that pierced the night sky and stabbed into him, as if the dagger had pierced him too.
He heard something fall to the ground. He heard the man's pained gasps. Then came a nauseating splash as something was thrown into the cauldron.
Wormtail did not want to look—but the potion turned fiery red, and the bright light shone through Wormtail's tightly shut eyelids.
The man was panting and groaning in pain.
"B-blood of the enemy—forcibly taken—you will revive your foe."
Still gasping in pain, the man tremblingly drew a small glass bottle from his pocket and poured blood into the cauldron.
The liquid in the cauldron instantly turned a dazzling white.
The man finally completed the task. He collapsed to his knees beside the cauldron, then tilted sideways and fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding severed arm as he panted.
The cauldron was about to boil. Diamond-like sparks flew outward, so bright and dazzling that everything around them turned black as velvet.
I hope Master drowns in the cauldron, Wormtail thought. I hope it fails—
Then he was horrified. How dare he think that?!
Suddenly, the sparks above the cauldron went out.
A column of white steam rose from the cauldron, hiding everything before Wormtail.
He could no longer see the man. He could only see a white mass of vapor—surely it had failed—it drowned—please—please let Master be dead—
Then, through the white fog before him, he saw with horror a black human shape slowly rising from the cauldron, tall and thin, like a skeleton.
"Robe me."
The cold, high voice said from behind the steam.
The man, protecting his wounded arm, hurriedly grabbed the black robe that had wrapped the bundle from the ground. He stood and, with one hand, pulled it over his master's head.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, his eyes fixed on Wormtail—
Wormtail saw that face, paler than a skull, with two large red eyes, a nose as flat as a snake's, and nostrils like two thin slits.
Voldemort had returned.
Wormtail slumped on the cold tavern floor.
His tears had already dried.
"Wormtail."
Voldemort's voice came from the mist.
"Do you know why I waited a full thirteen years?"
Pettigrew's lips trembled, but he could not say a word.
"Heh. But there is no need for you to know anymore."
Wormtail's vision went completely dark.
Far away in London, the young wizard silently lifted his head.
He seemed to have been distracted for quite a while, and a faint dazed look still lingered on his face.
Then he heard what seemed to be an alarm from Gringotts.
He looked up at the sky.
In the deep ink-black darkness, stars had begun to glitter.
Actually, the stars had always been there.
Sean thought this for no reason.
It was only the darkness that made them shine.
And so, in the night, some voices could finally be heard.
"Thirteen years."
In the empty tavern, Voldemort spoke with a pale face.
His voice was no longer that hoarse whisper.
It was rich, magnetic, and enough to make anyone who heard it instinctively feel fear.
That voice echoed through the hollow tavern, like someone had struck a bell in a deep cellar.
He lowered his head and looked at the shriveled, unrecognizable skin-bag at his feet.
"Such a long time,"
he said mockingly.
"And you did not abandon me when I was at my weakest—not because you were loyal, but because you were too cowardly, too afraid, too lacking in courage to find another path. And I survived because of your cowardice."
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. There was no warmth in that smile.
"So cowardice is useful after all. At least, it allowed me to stand here again."
He stretched out his hand and moved each finger.
Those fingers were sharp and pale, as if they had never been exposed to sunlight.
"And how many weak creatures are there besides you?"
The mockery at the corner of his mouth became thicker and colder.
"He truly chose a coward—Dumbledore,"
he said softly, as if savoring the name.
"You possess everything this world could give you. Loyal friends, students who adore you, the reverence of the entire wizarding world. And I—"
He looked around the tavern in the darkness, at the blood and corpse on the floor.
"I have myself. Heh."
He looked toward the tavern door.
The door was pushed open before him by an invisible force.
Wind and snow poured in, blowing over his body.
His naked skin was cut by the icy wind like blades, yet he only narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then he laughed.
That laugh was exceptionally clear and piercing in the blizzard, like glass scraping across sharp stone.
"I have returned,"
he said to the wind and snow, to the night, to the world.
"And you, Dumbledore—you actually thought I would be inferior to him?"
He lifted his head and spread his arms, letting the storm lash his newborn body.
"Voldemort—has returned."
His voice seemed to pierce through the wind and snow, through the entire forest, through the Albanian wilderness, traveling very, very far.
And in that very far place, Albus Dumbledore, standing at the edge of the dense forest, suddenly stopped.
He reached into his robe, supported the wizard who had just Apparated to his side from the tavern, and grasped the hilt of Gryffindor's sword.
"You have finally come."
he said quietly.
"And we still have many things to do."
Behind him, the wind and snow grew fiercer.
And in the darkness ahead, a new era—a dark era full of unknowns—was slowly drawing open its curtain.
The two-horned serpent had shed its skin, and the lion had not yet bared its fangs.