Cassian and Bathsheda landed hard. Dry wind slapped across their faces from one side, dragging dust up from the cracked earth. From the other came a cooler breeze, tugging faintly at Cassian’s coat. It carried something briny, sea, maybe. Long gone. Faded enough it almost didn’t smell like anything at all.

Around them, the land stretched out in bleached ridges. Scrub grass clung to the dirt. Thorny bushes growing knee-height, all brittle limbs and sunburnt leaves. A few bone-white stones jutted from the ground like ribs. And further up the slope, the rise of a hill, oddly symmetrical for something so bare.

Cassian blinked at it. The sun was still low, throwing long shadows across the ground. He rolled his shoulders.

“Well. This doesn’t scream ‘fresh start,'” he muttered. “More ‘forgotten sacrifice site with optional human remains.'”

Bathsheda took a long breath through her nose. “Charming.”

“Thank you. I try.”

They stood for a second, just listening. There wasn’t much to hear. A few distant birds. And shouts of academics in their most natural zones.

Still, Cassian had been buzzing since the morning. The sort where he forgot to eat, misbuttoned his shirt… Bathsheda had long since given up trying to rein him in, there was no curbing that grin, no matter how dignified he tried to play it.

Looking back, she realised just how many times he’d hinted at this trip over the years. Offhand comments, scribbled notes, the way his voice shifted whenever someone brought up the country. He’d nearly tripped over his own boots this morning trying to get out the door.

And now they were here.

To Cassian, this wasn’t some academic detour. This was it. His white whale. His sad little dream with a tendency to get him laughed out of conferences.

In his last life, he would’ve given a limb to study this site. Possibly both, if you threw in unrestricted archive access. But the chance never came. And in this life, he’d nearly missed it again.

He’d tried. Dropped names like confetti. His own. Bathsheda’s. Rosier, even, with only mild gagging. Threw in Hogwarts for good measure, which went about as well as expected. Still nothing.

He hadn’t wanted to reach out to Master Ji or the Flamels for this. But of course, Dumbledore got involved. Probably sent an owl the moment Cassian muttered archaeology in the same breath as suspicious energy readings.

So naturally, Nicolas Flamel had written back. Said the site felt… wrong.

Two of them followed the path round a bend where the ground flattened. Up ahead, the tents came into view. A massive German field tent took up the centre. Turkish ones circled around it like satellites. Smaller, leaner, but no less serious.

Turkish magicks manned the perimeter. Wands tucked neatly under belts. Their badges marked them as Ministry, probably cultural attaches seconded for the site.

But the Germans were clearly running things.

Bathsheda sighed through her nose. “They’ve overstaffed it.”

They were stopped right at the outer perimeter. A witch stepped out from under the nearest awning, sleeves rolled, wand tucked at her side. Turkish badge on her coat, copper edge glinting in the sun.

She didn’t speak, just held out a hand.

Cassian passed over two scrolls, both sealed, both very official-looking, borrowed off Dumbledore.

The witch cracked one open, eyes flicking over the contents. Then the second.

She stopped reading halfway through. Looked up.

“Master Rosier. Master Babbling. This way, please. You’re expected in the main tent.”

Cassian blinked. “Main tent?”

The witch nodded, already turning. “Our Minister left orders. We were to escort you directly as soon as you arrived.”

Bathsheda gave him a look.

He waved a finger in the air and she heard his voice like he was leaning right beside her, even though his mouth hadn’t moved.

“From Greece. Left a mark, like the Flamels did. Probably wanted to remember.”

She nodded, eyes already moving as they stepped inside.

Inside was crowded. Tables stacked with scrolls and spell-calibrated relic trays. Most people stood, robes pressed and voices hushed. Off to the left, a handful of old masters kept to the shadows, huddled near the wall. Cassian caught familiar faces. He greeted them with a nod and got subtle nods back.

The centre of the tent was a different beast.

Ministers from at least five countries formed a loose ring around the main table. Turkiye, Greece, Iraq, Syria and Egypt.

Cassian had heard the site was already stirring the pot, arguments over magical heritage, claims wrapped in centuries of resentment. Not surprising. The land had seen too many borders, too many empires scratching lines over it like they meant anything.

Turkiye held the ground, technically. That much the World Council had settled, this stretch of scorched dirt, ancient wards, and buried secrets fell well within their borders. Still, the Council had declared it global property, or close enough. An archaeological olive branch. But as host, Turkiye still got the final say on movement and methods. That had ruffled feathers.

At the far end, a tall man in a dark blue robe tapped a thick stack of site permits. “The western alcove was already sealed before your team crossed the ward line. We are not contesting the boundary.”

“Yes,” said the Egyptian minister without looking up, “but your team activated it.” She gestured toward a rune print that shimmered faintly on the map. “And failed to log the backlash.”

“That backlash was stabilised within two minutes.”

“Two minutes and thirty-four seconds,” said a thin, balding Greek wizard without looking up from his notes. “And it nearly collapsed the eastern wall. That structure predates your permit by a few millennia.”

“Enough,” snapped a woman in turquoise robes, Syrian, Cassian guessed, from her accent. “This isn’t a land claim. We’ve all signed the Council agreement. The site belongs to the world. So stop acting like you each brought it in your mother’s suitcase.”

That earned a few frowns. A sigh from someone in the back.

Bathsheda leaned closer to Cassian, voice barely above breath. “Excited bunch.”

He tilted his head. “They’ve been fighting over borderstones since Babylon. This is foreplay.”

After the ministers were done huffing through their robes, the historians finally got a word in. Most of them looked like they’d been holding back a collective sigh. One of the Germans took over, pointing at the map laid out across the main table.

“South alcove’s been stable for two weeks,” she said, tapping the parchment hard enough to crease it. “Pre-Uruk carving patterns. Sealed entrance here, minimal blowback. That’s our best point of entry.”

The others murmured agreement, half already scribbling notes, half too tired to argue.

Cassian leaned against the back partition, arms folded, eyes fixed on the map. His brow lifted a bit at the phrase pre-Uruk. They’d stopped pretending this place was just Neolithic ages ago.

One of the older Turkish historians spoke next, not looking up. “No spells within five feet of the doorway. It’s reacting to intent.”

“Mental projection, you mean?” said a Greek woman near the end of the table.

“Or resonance.” The man shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s choosing who gets through. Burned one of our crew last week.”

Others frowned at that.

“What’s the trigger?” someone asked from the circle.

The Turkish man who’d spoken before shook his head. “We don’t know. Greed, maybe. Or fear. The runes react like they’re… judging.”

That earned a few uneasy looks. Nobody liked the idea of a ruin with opinions.

The German witch leading the site cleared her throat. “Until we’re certain what provokes it, we keep the area sealed. Two guards minimum at all times. No wandlight near the inner ring.”

“Are we sure it’s a ring?” said one of the Greeks. “The readings could be a resonance echo from below. Göbekli’s never been-“

She cut him off. “It’s a ring. Our diviners confirmed the flux point sits right beneath the central pillar.”

A ripple of muttering swept the tent. Everyone had seen the sketches of that pillar, massive, carved with half-human figures, animals bent in patterns that made no sense, runes older than language itself.

Cassian’s fingers twitched against his sleeve. In his last life, he’d written essays about those carvings that no one had read. To see them now, to hear historians talk about them as active constructs, it was the sort of thing that would’ve made him giddy if it weren’t so dangerous.

A Syrian witch spoke next. “We sent in a probe two nights ago. Wooden, inert, no spell trace. It reached the wall and disintegrated.”

Someone whistled. “So it eats wood now?”

“No,” the witch said. “It erases.”

That shut everyone up.

Bathsheda’s eyes flicked briefly toward Cassian. They drifted toward the corner.

The rest of the old masters he half-recognised had probably only got vague impressions of him after Greece, most of them had wiped those memories.

Ayda was muttering already, beard twitching. “These youngsters haven’t the faintest clue what they’re playing with. Half of them think an ancient ward’s a bloody light switch.”

Cassian gave a short grin. “You tried telling them that?”

“The site isn’t sleeping.”

Edevane looked at him with a squint. “You think it’s watching?”

“I know it is,” Ayda said. “Place is choosing. Reacting. You don’t carve half-blooded things into stone unless you’re preparing for something messy.”

Cassian glanced at the map table. The pillar sketches. The half-formed limbs and stretched torsos. They weren’t decorative. That much was clear.

Ayda folded his arms. “Tell me, brat. Do you really think the Council wanted this opened to the public?”

“No,” Cassian said. “I think they wanted a headline and hoped it’d stay buried long enough to die of bureaucracy.”

Edevane hummed.

Ayda leaned in. “They don’t realise what’s under that ring. But it’s waiting.”

Bathsheda’s eyes flicked between them. “Waiting for what?”

Ayda didn’t answer.

Cassian stared at the map, jaw tight.

Whatever this place was, it wasn’t an excavation anymore.

It was a door. And someone, somewhere, had already started knocking.

***

Dumbledore showed up not long after the worst of the shouting had died down. A few historians kept talking, like volume might win the argument. It didn’t. The ministers were already flaring tempers over jurisdiction, permit dates, and whatever centuries-old grudge they’d dug up this time.

He moved straight to the delegates. They talked quietly, in hushed whispers, but whatever he said stopped their arguments. A few of them nodded, some reluctantly. Others looked like they’d bitten into something sour.

Still, it worked.

The old masters weren’t exactly celebrities. Most had locked themselves away long before the Ministry started cataloguing their birthdays. The current generation of historians barely acknowledged them.

Didn’t matter. Dumbledore still had pull.

He’d told the gathered delegates to keep their hands off the ruin until they were absolutely sure it wasn’t going to eat them. That was enough to shut most of them up… for now.

Once the tent emptied of its louder occupants, Dumbledore wandered back over to where Cassian and Bathsheda stood, his mouth twitching with a faint smile.

“You’ve met your great-great-great uncle Coriolanus, I assume?”

Cassian blinked. “My what?”

He turned.

Dumbledore nodded toward the back wall, where an old man stood like he’d been carved out of oak. Long coat, neat robes, silver rings that probably hadn’t been decorative when first worn. His eyes locked straight on Cassian, hawk-like and not remotely impressed.

Cassian blinked. “Ugh. Hi?”

The man walked straight up to him and waved a hand across Cassian’s face like he was clearing dust.

“You didn’t see me.”

Cassian didn’t move. “What are you, a Jedi?”

The man actually blinked. “You know Star Wars?”

Cassian almost tripped over his own breath. “I should be asking you that!”

The man burst into laughter. “Oh, it was Absolute Muggle Cinema. Excellent entertainment. Bit melodramatic at the end, but still.”

Cassian stared at him as if the man’d grown neon ears. A Rosier. Admitting to liking Muggle cinema. Publicly. In a dig tent. Surrounded by international delegates. What next, a Quidditch team named after the Black Sabbath?

“You’re serious.”

The old man grinned. “Very.”

Cassian folded his arms. “Right. So which part was your favourite? Blowing up the Death Star or the family therapy via lightsaber?”

“Oh, I preferred the politics,” he said without shame. “Palpatine had a point.”

Cassian snorted. “Naturally.”

The man extended a hand. “Coriolanus Rosier. Apparently I’m your great-great-great something. Don’t bother tracing the bloodline. It’s messy. Gets French somewhere in the middle.”

Cassian gave the hand a very sceptical glance, then shook it anyway. “Cassian. No numbering.”

“Pity. I think you’d have made an excellent the Third.”

The man tapped his chin, squinting like he was flipping through a very dusty mental ledger. “Let me see… last I remember, there was that snotty brat, Magnus. What are you to him?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Grandson.”

Coriolanus gave a low whistle. “Merlin’s toenails, he actually bred? Thought the boy was too busy staring at his own reflection and pretending it was stoicism.”

Cassian smirked. “That sounds about right. Still does that, actually. You could drop a dragon on the man’s head and he’d only raise an eyebrow.”

“Ah, so the bloodline’s still proud and emotionally constipated,” Coriolanus said with satisfaction. “Good to know some things never change.”

Bathsheda coughed into her hand, very much pretending not to exist.

Of course Cassian couldn’t have that.

He stepped in front of her like a host announcing a headliner. “This is Professor Bathsheda Babbling. My love of life, and mother of—”

She jabbed him in the ribs, hard. Didn’t miss a beat as she smiled at the old man. “Hi.”

The man gave her a once-over, but not in the usual, polite-until-proven-otherwise way. His gaze cut straight through the formalities. “Strong breath. Dragon?”

Then his eyes dropped to her hands. Long pause. “Ah. Rune master.” He leaned in, nostrils twitching. “Why do I smell Fjord? Hmm?”

Cassian and Bathsheda froze. The old man’s words had peeled them open like a book, and for a second, it felt as if he’d rifled through every private page.

Bathsheda glanced sideways at Cassian. “Did he just sniff my runes?”

“Apparently,” Cassian muttered. “And I think he smelled Fjord.”

Before the old man could elaborate, a sharp crack broke the air behind him.

An older witch appeared, small but fierce, silver hair pinned up in a way that promised discipline and good tea. She reached over and yanked Coriolanus by the ear.

“Stop playing Sherlock,” she said, voice dry as dust.

He flinched. “Ow, woman, I’m greeting family-“

“By terrifying them?” She turned to Cassian and Bathsheda with an apologetic smile. “Forgive him. He heard about you two from Nicolas and Perenelle.”

Cassian let out a slow breath. “That tracks. I thought he’d stolen my aura or something.”

Bathsheda rubbed her temple.

The old woman finally let go of Coriolanus’s ear. “I’m Sabine. Don’t encourage him. He’s been in the desert too long, starts thinking he’s clairvoyant.”

Coriolanus straightened his collar, glaring at her. “It’s called intuition.”

“It’s called nosiness,” she shot back. “You’re lucky I didn’t hex your nose shut.”

Cassian couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his mouth. “You two related, or is this professional rivalry?”

“Married,” Sabine said before Coriolanus could answer.

Cassian gaped. “Are you my great-great-great aunty?”

The woman chuckled. “No, dear. We married recently. I suspect foul play.”

Coriolanus snorted. “Please. As if I need tricks. I am made of charm.”

She jabbed him in the ribs. “Hexes, more like.”

They squabbled like it was sport. Cassian and Bathsheda just stood there, eyebrows climbing, trying to decide if this counted as domestic violence or foreplay.

Before either could comment, the ground bucked under their feet.

A low, teeth-rattling boom snapped through the tent walls, then everything shook. The blast hit like thunder in a bottle. Canvas tore free from its moorings, scrolls and relic trays went flying, dust swallowing the light in a rush.

Cassian grabbed Bathsheda’s arm, dragging her toward the flap as crates crashed and curses flew. Shouts from outside. Dust, thick as smoke, bled in through every gap. Someone screamed. Something metal clattered and kept clattering until it didn’t.

They burst into daylight, or what was left of it. Half the site was hidden in a rising cloud of red earth, thick as smog. Tents flapped violently. A wand shot up somewhere on the left, casting a shield charm too late. Another figure staggered past, face and coat greyed with dirt, blood streaked down his forehead.

“Get back!” someone roared. “They fell into the ward!”

Cassian’s gut flipped. “What… how many?”

“No idea,” snapped one of the Turkish guards, coughing through the grit. “Three, maybe four, someone pushed past the line, idiots-“

More shouting. The central hill was barely visible now, but there was a cavity where the sealed ring had been. A wide gash cracked through the centre, as if the earth had been scooped out. The runes there, Cassian could just make them out, flickering like they were alive and not at all pleased, were blazing gold.

Behind him, a few of the old masters had streamed out. Edevane was swearing in Welsh. Ayda snapped something about incompetence and blind greed. Cassian didn’t catch the rest.

A stretcher passed, carried by two Ministry healers. The witch on it wasn’t moving. Another followed, young, robes torn, hand limp off the side.

The dust hadn’t settled. It clung to everything, clotted the air. Voices were muffled, as if the entire site had been stuffed in cotton.

But something new pressed beneath the wind now. A hum. Like the earth itself had started breathing again.

“Gate’s open,” muttered someone behind them.

Cassian didn’t look away from the crater. “Brilliant,” he said flatly. “That’ll end well.”

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