Bathsheda flicked her wand, testing the shimmering barrier. “The field is bound to the site. If we can channel enough magic into the outer glyphs, it might reset the layers for a few hours. A day if we are lucky.”

Some stood closer to the edge, arms folded, unwilling to step in. Doubt clear on their faces, the kind that said they’d seen too many scholars die chasing clever theories.

One of the Frenchmen muttered, “Who put her in damn charge?”

Another voice answered quietly from the back, “Her name is Babbling. Master of Runes at Hogwarts. I’ve read her papers.”

A pair of the younger scholars exchanged quick glances and edged closer. A Hit-Wizard shifted uneasily, then nodded, falling into place near Cassian. More whispering in favour of Batsheda and Cassian.

The Hit-Wizard beside him said, “What do you need from us?”

Bathsheda looked at Cassian, then back to the group. “Circles. We will need at least three containment circles around the site. Layered runes. And enough raw power to make it stick.”

Cassian watched as Bathsheda led the other Rune Masters in carving out a series of confinement runes. The shapes were strange but familiar… spirals within spirals, etched so deeply they seemed to hum against the skin. He’d only ever seen these once before, in that cursed cave in Norway two years back. And he didn’t think he would see them again so soon. As far as he knew, the place was still sealed shut. So, how did Bathsheda learn them?

He stepped up behind her and tugged lightly on her hand. “How do you know these runes?” he asked.

Bathsheda didn’t look up. Her fingers kept tracing sigils into the dirt, wand tip flicking just so. “What do you mean? I’ve always known them.”

Cassian frowned, narrowing his eyes. Always? He let her go, jaw tight, and joined others to draw simpler runes.

He couldn’t help but see the woman on the cliff, Yrsa. He was almost certain Bathsheda wasn’t possessed. Almost certain she wasn’t carrying a grandma’s spirit in her body. Was it about runes, or about heritage? He couldn’t be sure. The way she’d worded it unsettled him. Always. He knew for certain it wasn’t always. Which meant either she had inherited memories that merged with hers, confusing her sense of time, or…

The others worked quickly, sweat glinting under the dim light. Dirt flew, symbols took shape, and the air thickened as magic pooled in tight circles around the site.

“How long until that thing snaps its chains?” someone asked.

Leontis didn’t answer. He was too busy pacing the edge of the nearest circle, muttering counter-runes under his breath.

Bathsheda straightened, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “If we get this right, we won’t have to find out.”

She crouched again and started linking the outer circle to the inner ring with delicate strokes of her wand. Sparks flared briefly as the lines joined, then settled into a faint, pulsing glow.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “We will need to charge it.”

Cassian crouched near the edge of the ring, eyeing the glyphs. “How much power are we talking here? A trickle, or the full blast?” Thɪs chapter is updated by novel[f]ire.net

“The full blast,” Bathsheda said without hesitation. “Anything less won’t hold.”

The Rune Masters spread out, forming a loose circle around the containment ring. 

Bathsheda’s voice carried across the group. “On my mark, we will push magic into the sigils. Slowly at first, then build until the lines hold steady. Don’t break the connection, no matter what you feel.”

She raised her wand. “Now.”

A thrum went through the air as spells hit the ring from all sides. The sigils flared bright, searing lines of red and gold burning into the earth. The hum deepened into a low, bone-deep vibration that made Cassian’s teeth ache.

The barrier shimmered, ripples rolling out. For a moment, it held.

Then a roar split the air.

Cassian’s head snapped up. The sound came from the chamber… the same low, guttural roar, so deep it rattled his ribs. Dust sifted down from the canvas above as the ground shuddered.

“Keep going!” Bathsheda barked.

The chains groaned. Another roar followed, louder this time, sharper. Cassian’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He tightened his grip on his wand and shoved more power toward the ring.

The ground cracked near the archway. A glow pulsed through the stone like a heartbeat.

“Something is moving,” one of the Hit-Wizards shouted. “It is trying to break through!”

“Don’t stop!” Bathsheda snapped, her face pale. “Hold the link, it is over!”

Cassian felt the pull now… like the ring was sucking the magic out of him, burning it faster than he could channel. Sweat pricked his neck. His hand shook, but he didn’t lower his wand.

The glow at the arch flared, then winked out.

For a breath, everything went still.

Cassian’s chest heaved as he dropped his wand arm, muscles screaming. The ring’s light faded to a dull, steady glow.

“Is it… gone?” someone whispered.

“No,” Cassian said, panting. “It is sleeping again. That is all.”

Bathsheda straightened slowly, her shoulders stiff. “Then we make sure it doesn’t wake.”

***

After the containment finally settled into place, Bathsheda took the barrier down that had been holding them in. One by one, the scholars realised they were free to leave. No one moved, though. Not a single foot turned to escape.

The creature was still there. Bound, but not beaten. It sat like a sword waiting to strike, waiting for any excuse to snap the last of its chains. Walking away now would’ve been stupidity at its finest.

The group shifted uneasily. Then the first parchment went out… an urgent scribble that vanished in a pop of magic. Another followed, then another.

Every scholar sent word to their masters, their mentors, to anyone older and wiser who might have a chance of understanding the mess they were standing in. Letters were racing across countries before Cassian even straightened up, landing in offices and studies from Cairo to Sao Paulo. This wasn’t a “Greece sorts it alone” situation. The creature in the chamber wasn’t the kind of problem you handed off to some middle-tier Ministry clerk.

The French wizard was already pacing at the edge of the site, muttering under his breath. The crimson-robed woman scribbled on a second scroll with stabbing strokes, the parchment crinkling as she jammed it into the air to vanish.

Leontis stood just behind them. “This is bigger than any of us expected.”

Cassian tipped his head back to give the man a flat look. “Right.”

A ripple of tension moved through the group. The crimson-robed witch snapped her head toward him. “You talk too much for a man who is still breathing because of our efforts.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly. Bathsheda reached up, catching his sleeve with a quiet tug. “Not now.”

He sighed through his nose and stood, brushing the dirt off his trousers.

The Hit-Wizard closest to the tents looked jittery. “We need reinforcements. Proper ones. A beast like that…” His voice trailed off, as if saying it aloud might bring the creature’s attention crashing back.

Others nodded, sending more letters to summon every heavyweight they could think of… Ministry heads, foreign scholars, curse-breakers, anyone with enough sense to take this seriously. If what they’d seen in the chamber was even half right, then the creature wasn’t just old. It was older than most civilisations they’d ever studied. Alive. Strong. Completely unknown. None of them fancied their chances against that. 

For the next hour they did nothing but bleed, splint, and vomit up. Hands shoke so badly potions sloshed down robes.

An hour later, the big shots turned up. Minister of Magic for Greece, a portly wizard with a deep tan and a voice that could shake stonework. Turkiye’s Minister followed, robes so crisp Cassian was sure the man travelled with a house-elf dedicated to ironing. Then came Karkaroff, gliding in with style. Wearing a thick fur coat despite the weather.

Behind them shuffled a few ancient witches and wizards… people Cassian was half-convinced were already listed as “presumed dead” in several Ministry files. They looked the type who’d spent the last fifty years holed up in mountain villas, emerging now only because someone whispered about ancient magic going feral.

TThe Greek Minister of Magic reached the centre of the tents first. “Report.” He didn’t bother with greetings.

Leontis stepped forward. “We encountered resistance within the chamber. A creature… bound for at least a millennium. We reinforced the seal temporarily.”

The man’s thick brows drew together. “Temporarily? That’s not good enough. Why didn’t you neutralise it?”

Cassian laughed, not trying to be rude, really just felt it was so funny. “Oh sure, we will just ‘neutralise’ the giant murder-lizard chained to a cursed rock. Excellent plan. Someone hand me a flyswatter.”

Karkaroff turned his head, eyes narrowing. “And you are?”

“Rosier,” Cassian said lightly. “British. Here for the sunshine and mortal peril.”

The Turkish Minister frowned. “Rosier… as in…?”

Before anyone could get another word in, the air split with a sharp crack. A man appeared, robes swirling like storm clouds caught in a gale. His eyebrows practically brushed his collarbone. Moustache and beard swept low. His silk robes were red and black, dragons and clouds stitched across them as though they might breathe fire if you stared too long.

“Cassian, my friend. Bathsheda.” The man bowed slightly.

Cassian bowed back, not missing a beat. “Master Ji. That was quick.”

Around them, the scholars stiffened. Wands faltered. A few mouths opened then snapped shut again. Even the Ministers looked like they’d been slapped awake. It wasn’t every day the Headmaster of China’s magical school dropped into an archaeological dig in Greece like he was popping round for tea.

“News travels,” Wenqiang Ji said simply, eyes sweeping the group. “You stirred up quite the ripple.”

“I didn’t stir anything. I was dragged into it. By you.” Cassian’s tone was dry as kindling. He had been on his way to a cozy vacation. Instead, he found himself putting up with arrogant scholars, forced to walk into the very temple he had warned others against entering, and nearly dying for it. But he had promised that he and Bathsheba would keep watch. He felt he had to go in and see for himself.

The crimson-robed witch’s lips parted like she meant to speak. Nothing came out.

Bathsheda dipped her head politely. “It is good to see you again, Master Ji.”

Ji’s gaze softened. “And you. It seems the pair of you keep finding the places best left buried.”

Cassian’s mouth twitched. “It is a gift. Or a curse. Still deciding.”

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We’ve built a rapport, you and I. I talk, you vanish.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep