Cassian stood, stretched, then collapsed back onto the mattress, limbs spread. Kebab-induced coma was a real ailment. “Remind me why we are not chasing forbidden temples instead of drinking overpriced tea and sweating through our robes?”

“Because the temples are cursed.”

He crawled across the rug like someone trying to seduce a carpet merchant, and flopped onto her lap, heat-stunned, and wrapped both arms around her waist.

“Ever made love in forty-five degrees on a Turkish carpet?”

She didn’t flinch. Just glanced down, unimpressed. “Yes.”

Cassian blinked up at her, eyes watering. “You did?”

She smacked his arm. “You know I didn’t.”

“Right,” he grinned. “Just checking. Wanna change that?”

Bathsheda didn’t dignify that with an answer. She shoved him sideways with her knee. He rolled off, flopped onto his back with a groan and stared at the ceiling fan juddering loose.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “no carpet romance.”

She stepped over him to grab her bag. “Pack up. We leave before sunrise.”

“Where to? Pit of despair or hidden archive of long-dead lunatics?”

“Iran.”

Cassian sat up. “Ah. Good. From one furnace to another.”

She tossed him his shirt. “Dress like a researcher, not a wandering cultist.”

He caught it. “Rude.”

She was already at the door. He cast a spell to chill the fabric and yanked it over his head.

***

They Portkeyed just past dawn. Arrival spot, a rock shelf twenty feet above a dried-out riverbed.

Cassian staggered, hands on knees. Bathsheda was scanning the horizon with her compass out and her boots sinking slightly in the cracked earth.

Their local contact, a weathered man in a coat two sizes too large joined them twenty minutes later. He didn’t say much, just handed over a parchment wrapped in goatskin and waved vaguely toward the hills.

Bathsheda unwrapped it. Old map.

Cassian leaned over her shoulder. “That is definitely not modern Farsi.” He could read and speak a bit of modern Farsi, and he could grasp the general meaning of the Classical form as well. The markings on the map, however, were not modern.

They followed the path outlined. Up the ridge. Down the other side. Then around a slope. Three hours in, the heat hit new levels. His shirt stuck to his back. His tongue felt powdered.

“Still think Turkiye was too humid?” Bathsheda asked.

He glared sideways. “Yes. Humid I can survive. This is me evaporating.” 

They stopped at a shaded rock, drank from a canteen charmed to stay cool. He drank three, then refilled them with Aguamenti. He then pulled out a small box, flipped it open, and offered her a toffee.

She took one. “Where did you get this?”

“Stole it from Dumbledore’s desk.”

She stared.

“Fine. It is from the Hogwarts staff stash. But imagining it is contraband adds flavour.”

They found the next Portkey soon enough. A wooden tray, chipped at one edge and scorched in the middle. They grabbed hold.

The landing platform was set into the side of a Ministry outpost, carved from polished white stone and guarded by two men in dark robes with stern eyebrows and no discernible humour.

Bathsheda dusted off her coat, stepped forward before either of the guards could ask. She flicked open a slim folder, parchment stamped and sealed.

“Master Bathsheda Babbling. Registered entry under academic exemption. This is Cassian Rosier, attached as historian and linguistic assistant.”

Cassian flashed his best grin. “Mostly carry books and offend local ghosts.”

The taller guard squinted at him, then back at the paper. “Purpose of visit?”

“Research,” Bathsheda said. “I’ve been invited by the Ministry of Magical China to co-research a newly discovered monastery, along with the study of Pre-Qin rune systems and potential cross-regional migration patterns of glyph-based protective magics.”

Neither of the guards blinked. One nodded, turned to his clipboard, scribbled something, then waved them, “Wand Registry is on the third floor. First on the right.”

Cassian gave him a mock salute. “Cheers, lads. Try not to scowl yourselves into early retirement.”

They passed through the checkpoint. The marble inside was polished, the building filled with wards.

Bathsheda was climbing the stairs without waiting. He had to trot to keep up.Third floor, first on the right. The Wand Registry was a long room with high ceilings, stacks of parchment piled like unstable ruins on every available surface, and three witches hunched over ledgers.

The one at the front said. “Wands on the scale.”

Cassian slid his across, then leaned on the counter. “Be gentle. She is temperamental.”

The witch sniffed, scribbled something, then waved him off with a terse flick. Bathsheda followed, her wand registering with a softer ping. The moment it was done, she turned to leave.

“Right then,” Cassian said, catching up again. “Paperwork is done. Registry got our sticks. When do we start poking around?”

“Today. I thought we could rest a day, but since we were kept in Turkiye, we have to start now.”

She started to drag him away before he could press a hand to the giant statue’s kneecap.

Cassian cast the statue a mournful glance. “I just wanted to see if it twitched. Looked like the sort that twitches.”

She didn’t slow. “If it twitches, it is cursed. If it is cursed, we are behind schedule. Again.”

“Very clinical. I miss when you used to flirt before dragging me into tombs.”

“You mistook ‘passive tolerance’ for flirting.”

He grinned and skipped after her. Ahead, mountains curled around each other and somewhere between the peaks lay the next breadcrumb.

It wasn’t raining, but the sky looked like it might change its mind. “So, which ruin are we pillaging today?”

Bathsheda pulled a folded page from her coat. It was creased and smudged. “The locals think it is a monastery. Carvings suggest pre-dynastic worship structure, maybe converted and sealed. Possibly earlier.”

“Always a good sign when someone seals a place and doesn’t come back.”

She handed him the map without looking. “Your kind of good.”

They hiked past a field of low stones then the trail narrowed. The fog crept closer.

“Bit morbid, innit?” he murmured.

Bathsheda didn’t answer. She was squinting up ahead.

An hour in, they reached the edge of the forest. The trees weren’t tall, but they were old. Black trunks. Pale leaves.  Cassian slowed, then stopped, sniffing the air. “Smells of mould and moonshine.”

“That is the resin,” Bathsheda said. “Sap got alchemical uses. Hallucinogenic in large doses.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Brilliant. Let’s inhale deeply and go spelunking.”

They pressed through the undergrowth. The map grew less helpful by the minute, squiggles pretending to be directions, old landmarks marked by “X” and “NOT HERE.” Cassian turned it sideways, frowned, then tried upside down.

“It is not a painting, Cass.”

“It might as well be. The man who drew this had a vendetta against common sense.”

Then the trees opened. And they finally saw it.

The monastery wasn’t grand. Well, not after thousands of years. The stonework had slouched, walls bowed inward, roof long since caved. Moss had claimed the gaps. Roots grew between bricks like they were keeping the whole thing upright. But the runes… those were untouched. Lines carved with too much care to be casual. Still glowing, faintly. Still warded.

Cassian exhaled. “Alright. I take it back. That is lovely.”

There were people buzzing around already. A big red tent hogged the middle like a flag, smaller ones clustered around it in a mess of blue, green, and grey. The Chinese had clearly decided everyone needed reminding who was leading the show.

Cassian didn’t mind. He liked knowing where the ego was parked.

He snickered, “So subtle.”

A few Ministry types milled about, robes sharp, boots cleaner than the terrain deserved. One of them was sketching something onto a clipboard with a self-inking quill.

A local wizard in a green jacket waved them through without a word. Cassian gave him a nod, then eyed the tents ahead.

“Reckon they will have tea in there or just a thousand forms to fill?”

“Both,” Bathsheda said. “But tea first. That is protocol here.”

He perked up. “Now that is civilised.”

The red tent looked bigger up close. Someone had charmed the canvas to shimmer faintly. 

Inside was cooler. Slapped with a cooling charm along the top seam.

A squat woman with half-moon glasses looked up from behind a table stacked with files.

“Names?”

Bathsheda slid a folder across the table. “Master Babbling. This is Professor Rosier.”

Cassian gave a small wave. “Historian. Occasional translator. Sometimes bait.”

The woman didn’t smile. Didn’t glance up either. Just cracked the folder open, gave it a once-over, then pulled a stamp out of the air and slammed it down. Blue light flickered across the parchment.

“Welcome, Master Babbling.”

She didn’t even blink at Cassian. Not a nod, not a word.

He scratched his jaw, mildly amused. Fair enough. Bathseda got her invite through actual credentials. He came by persuasion and strategic loitering. Difference was noted.

Bathsheda gave a sharp nod. “When do we start?”

The woman pointed to a corner where a row of low stools circled a copper samovar. Her smile was polite. “Take a rest. Try the hongcha. Expedition begins once all preparations are confirmed.”

She gave a nod. Cassian was already eyeing the samovar. 

He raised an eyebrow at Bathsheda. “You hear that? We’ve been politely told to go sit down and behave.”

Bathsheda had already turned. “Briefing after tea. Come on.”

Someone handed them clay cups.

“Oh, bloody hell. That is decent.”

Cassian had no problem drinking tea while the serious people sorted serious things. Honestly, the longer they took, the better. The brew was strong, with an inch of bitterness, and it made his spine tingle in that pleasant, “might be laced with minor stimulants” way. He was on his second cup when someone with a clipboord and unfortunate eyebrows called them over.

Bathsheda stood before the woman finished speaking. Cassian took a final sip, made a face, then followed her out. Outside, the fog had thinned, but only a little. Someone nearby was arguing in Mandarin about the logistics of artifact containment, at least, if his Chinese wasn’t too rusty.

They were led past a string of carts loaded with magical sensors and survey gear, then down a stone path half-sunk into the mountain slope. The ground grew uneven. The air turned colder, denser. They crossed into the tree line again, this time heading for the exposed ribs of the ruined monastery itself.

Their escort stopped beside a collapsed arch. “From here, we proceed without external magical tools. No detection charms. No shielding wards. No familiars.”

They entered through what had once been the main hall… pillars carved with layered text, half of it eroded by rain, the other half flickering under a preservation spell that had either aged badly or developed a sense of irony. The ceiling had long since caved, but light barely reached the floor.

Cassian ducked under a broken beam and stopped in the middle of the room, nose wrinkling. “Smells of stale incense and sandalwood. No… agarwood. Rare stuff.” He frowned. “Really rare.”

Spoiler

[collapse]

Ink blots the parchment.

“Proof you were present.

Something I can’t say for your Stone.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep