A quick reminder… the site is Göbekli Tepe. Two chapters back, while Cassian was shivering with excitement, the narration called it “Gobekli… his white whale.”

It’s about 12,000 years old and was discovered in 1994 as an ancient ritual/worship site. Before that, it was thought to be nothing more than an unremarkable hill, possibly a medieval cemetery or agricultural land. No one suspected it hid massive stone circles beneath it.

What makes it extraordinary is that Göbekli Tepe was built by hunter-gatherers, long before agriculture, pottery, or permanent settlements were supposed to exist. It completely upended the old idea that humans had to settle and farm before building monuments or complex religious sites. It’s not a settlement, there are no houses, just carved pillars arranged for ritual purposes.

I’d really recommend anyone unfamiliar with it to look it up. It’s genuinely fascinating and one of those discoveries that forced archaeology to rewrite a lot of assumptions.

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Silence filled the room. Everyone stared at the man on the ground, if you could still call him that. Skin dry as parchment, face shrivelled and slack. He looked like a mummy yanked out of some sealed tomb and dumped in the middle of their expedition.

Then every eye drifted to Cassian.

He’d brought the statue back. Gave it breath, if only for a minute. Then someone had torn its mind out like yanking a plug from the wall. And that was it. Gone.

Even the Hit-Wizards weren’t pretending to be composed. They just stood there, watching like something might still move.

The old master who’d pulled the memory stepped back, breathing like he’d run uphill in chainmail. “There was something in there. Something old. Too much magic. It snapped when I touched it.”

“Could’ve warned us,” someone muttered.

The man ignored him.

Edevane crouched beside the corpse. “Whatever was holding him together… it didn’t like being interrupted.”

A few of the younger historians edged further back.

The Turkish Minister looked from Cassian to the corpse, jaw tight. “Mr Rosier… what was that?”

Cassian let out a breath that was halfway to a groan. “Petrified ancient person,” he said. “I came across a spell not long ago. Saw our friend here stuck mid-scream and thought I could undo it. And I was right.”

The man’s brow furrowed. He nodded, though not entirely convinced.

One of the Old Masters stepped closer, eyes fixed on the gate’s black shimmer. “Something’s staring at us.”

That made the younger historians twitch. A few turned toward the dark, fidgeting with their wands. One squinted. “I can’t see anything.”

Another wizard raised his wand, light building at the tip. Cassian snapped his up faster, a silent spell whipping through the air. The wand flew from the man’s hand and clattered to the floor.

Every other wand came out at once.

Shouts broke over each other, orders, threats, curses, until the air was full of crackling energy. Factions split in seconds. Turkish guards barking at Greek curse-breakers, Syrian field mages pulling their partners behind shields. Dust lifted from the floor as magic flared and wands aimed in every direction.

Only the Old Masters, Bathsheda, and Cassian stayed still. None of them looked worried. You didn’t spend half a century around cursed ruins without learning which threats were real and which were toddlers playing with fireworks.

Cassian raised both hands, palms out. “Everyone take a breath,” he said. “And whatever you do…” His tone cut through the noise. “Do not banish that darkness.”

A few wands hesitated mid-aim.

One of the younger historians sneered. “Why not? It’s clearly-“

“Because,” Cassian said, “it’s not fog or shadow. It’s alive.”

Many stared, unsure whether to drop their wands or hold onto them a little tighter. But when the Turkish and Greek Ministers finally spoke up, and Dumbledore gave his name to it, the resistance cracked. Slowly, one by one, the wands lowered.

Coriolanus’ usual levity had gone. His brows pulled together as his gaze swept the chamber. “Do you know what they are?”

Cassian shook his head. “No, uncle. And I’d rather not.”

The old man gave a quiet nod. Sabine was standing off to the side, arms folded tight across her middle, one hand clenching the fabric of her sleeve. She was shivering.

Cassian frowned.

“She’s more attuned to danger than most,” Coriolanus murmured. “Always has been. Said the second we stepped in, it felt like death breathing down our necks.”

Cassian glanced at the shadows again. “She’s not wrong.”

The group moved again, slower now, fanning out towards the threshold. No one rushed. There wasn’t much talking either. Not because anyone said not to, just because the chamber didn’t seem like the kind of place for casual chat.

Cassian crouched beside one of the wall segments near the gate. The runes carved there were nothing like the ones from the surface chambers. These were smaller, older, slanted, forced into the stone rather than laid with care.

The Old Masters took over, tracing invisible lines through the dust with their wands, murmuring equations older than alphabets.

Bathsheda stepped forward, ignoring the nervous looks. She crouched beside a set of runes half-buried in the floor, brushing grit away with her sleeve.

“Here,” she said, tapping the stone. “They’re binding marks. But not containment, more like a seal reacting to sound.”

Ayda squinted. “Language lock?”

“Partly. See this curve?” She pointed at the base rune. “It’s fractured. Someone forced it once, then re-patched it.”

Cassian nodded. “So it’s been opened before.”

“Yes,” she said. “Whoever did it, they didn’t survive long enough to write down how. See here?” She pointed at the blank patch, “Would’ve filled here if they did.”

She kept working, careful and quick. Her wandlight skimmed across the carvings, each pulse revealing a new layer of script beneath the first. Even the old masters leaned in, muttering.

“That’s not Sumerian,” one murmured.

“No,” Bathsheda said, eyes sharp. “Older. Proto-Runic.”

The work stretched on, slow, methodical. Hours blurred. The air throbbed faintly with whatever lay beyond the gate. At one point, one of the Greek curse-breakers reached too close to a glowing line and yelped, smoke curling from his fingertips. Bathsheda didn’t flinch, just gave him a look that could’ve frozen fire.

“Don’t touch it unless you plan on losing a hand,” she said.

Coriolanus crouched beside Cassian. “She’s impressive.”

Cassian smirked. “Don’t tell her that. It is the reason I married her.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up. “You didn’t.”

“Semantics.”

A few of the guards stifled nervous chuckles.

Bathsheda’s voice broke through after another hour. “I think I’ve got it.”

Every head turned her way. She’d drawn a small pattern in chalk between the runes, a stabilising weave, neat, sharp, and humming faintly.

“This will hold the reaction,” she said.

She led them closer, chalk in one hand, wand in the other, cutting the runes into the centre of the seal like she’d done it a hundred times. Ayda took one side, Edevane the other. The old masters followed suit, marking out stabilisers, adjusting angles, muttering to themselves.

Then it started to shift. Whatever ward was separating two rooms from each other, started to melt.

Everyone held their breath.

After ten long minutes, the glow faded. The door went still.

A sigh rippled through the room, half relief, half exhaustion.

The Syrian Minister shot a look to one of her guards. “Check it.”

The man gave a quick nod and edged forward, wand held tight. A few others followed, German, Turkish, Green, French, Persian, one from Egypt, forming a loose line. Their boots scraped the floor, the sound far too loud in the still air.

Cassian muttered under his breath, “Every horror story starts with that sentence.”

The first guard reached the centre, crouched, pressed a hand against the stone. “It’s warm,” he said. “Feels hollow behind it.”

“Good,” the Minister said. “Move.”

The lead guard looked back, gave a sharp nod. “Clear.”

The Syrian Minister said something sharp in Arabic. The man disappeared inside. One by one, the others followed.

And whatever was inside… stayed quiet.

A few minutes in, one of the guards muttered something under his breath and stopped walking. Another stumbled into him with a grunt.

“Oi,” the first said, eyes darting. “Something’s breathing.”

Someone further ahead jerked to a halt. “What?”

“There’s… I dunno. It’s close. It’s moving.” The man’s face had gone slick with sweat. “Argh, there is something here-“

More voices joined in, too fast, overlapping. One swore loudly. Another hissed for silence. But the effect had taken hold. Shoulders bunched. Wands came up.

They pressed on for a few steps, slower now, half-turning at every sound.

Then the dark swallowed them.

Completely.

They waited.

One of the Greek delegates muttered a spell for communication, but nothing came back.

And then they returned, running. Shapes stumbled from the dark, coughing hard, drenched in sweat, eyes too wide. One dropped to a knee, breathing hard.

“T-there are things in there,” one of them gasped.

“Things? Like what?”

The guard shook his head, still panting. “Shadows. Figures. We couldn’t see them, but we heard them. Too many.”

“But nothing attacked?” asked the Syrian Minister.

“No,” the man said. “But… were… watching us.”

The other guard straightened, wiping his face. “It’s too dark. We couldn’t go further. There’s a wall of it.”

The Greek delegate stepped forward. “We need to push in further. If there’s a corridor-“

“There’s no point sending more people to walk into a wall of pitch,” Bathsheda cut in. “It’s reactive. Half the runes outside already implied that.”

One of the French delegates gave a soft scoff. “So what, we wait? Let it decide when it wants to open for us?”

Another voice, sharper, came from one of the Egyptian field agents. “We’ve lost two already. You want to give it more bodies to chew on?”

They argued for nearly an hour. The kind of back-and-forth where everyone thought they were being reasonable while gradually raising their voices. Ministers wanted protocol. Curse-breakers wanted glory. Historians wanted time.

In the end, they did what they always did. They compromised. Poorly.

They’d go together. Not all of them, just a small group. Enough to test the dark. Enough to lose a few without too much paperwork.

Cassian stood at the edge of the gate while the others faffed with their boots and emergency charms.

“No one is permitted to cast even a Lumos,” he said. “No spell to see in the dark. No enchantment. No vision charm, clever tweaks or exceptions.”

Movement behind him slowed. A few heads turned his way.

“If anyone’s used a ritual, has an artefact, or a neat little bloodline quirk that lets them see in the dark… stay behind. If your instinct is to wave your wand first and think later, stay the hell out of the chamber.”

One of the younger Greeks half-laughed. “You’re serious?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

The Greek shut up.

A pair of French curse-breakers exchanged a glance. One of them raised a hand halfway. “Even passive enchantments?”

Cassian turned to stare at him. “Especially passive enchantments.”

Murmurs started up, most of them in languages Cassian didn’t need to speak to know meant “who put this twat in charge?”

He ignored it.

A Turkish Auror lowered her wand slightly. “So we go in blind?”

“Yes.”

Someone scoffed near the back. Sounded French again. “How are we meant to learn anything if we can’t even see?”

Cassian looked straight at him. “If you want to see something, I can point you at the remains of the bloke who tried before you.”

The silence that followed was finally useful.

Cassian held Bathsheda’s hand as they stepped over the threshold. Dumbledore and Coriolanus kept close on their left, the old masters trailing just behind.

Everyone else had clustered into their little groups, groups of rune-wranglers and death-wishers, looking far more prepared than they actually were.

One breath in and Cassian instantly regretted it.

The dark wasn’t just black, it clung to his skin. It breathed. Hot air skimmed the back of his neck like someone was right behind him.

He didn’t stop walking, but his other hand hovered near his wand. Tempting. Really tempting. But he didn’t draw.

A few others weren’t so disciplined.

“Something just brushed my leg!” hissed a Greek curse-breaker.

Someone ahead barked, “It’s just your robes, Demetri.”

“That wasn’t my robes, that had fingers!”

Further in, a sharp thud, then a grunt.

“Who the hell put a wall here?” one man snapped.

“There’s no wall,” came another voice, too calm. “That was my head.”

“Did someone…? I swear something brushed my shoulder.”

“Get off me, what the hell was that?”

“Something’s breathing near my face, I can feel it.”

Cassian let out a breath through his teeth. “Perfect.”

To his right, Coriolanus chuckled under his breath. “Reminds me of that time in Luxor. Except we were drunk and it was intentional.”

A sharp yelp cut through the dark. Metal clattered. Someone hissed.

“Stop walking, stop walking, there’s a drop, I nearly-“

“No, no, it’s a wall, I hit a bloody wall!”

“Shut it, all of you!” someone snapped.

Something brushed past his left arm. Too smooth for cloth. Too cold for air.

Cassian stilled.

A moment later, someone further back swore violently in Arabic. Another body collided into someone else.

“You’re pushing me.”

“I didn’t touch you.”

Then silence again.

Bathsheda squeezed his hand. Cassian took a deep breath.

“Stop breathing like that, you’ll summon something,” muttered someone just behind them.

A different voice snapped, “We’re inhaling, Adnan, not conjuring.”

Five minutes in, and the nerves started to crack. The air buzzed like a nest of mosquitoes hovering right beside their ears.

Cassian grit his teeth and tried to ignore it. Whatever this place was, it was built to chew on nerves.

Then someone up ahead snapped. “I can’t take it!”

Cassian spun, already shouting, “Don’t-!”

Too late.

“Rev-“

He swore and threw his wand up. “Lumos Noctis!”

“-elio!”

The two spells clashed mid-air. Light and darkness cracked like thunder. For a split second, the dark folded in on itself, then tore open.

Screams followed. Full, raw terror. Something wet hit the ground. The air filled with a copper tang and the sound of splashing, then a gurgle, a thud, silence.

Darkness burst from Cassian’s wand, swallowing the air around him and a few of the clustered groups nearby. The spell spread like smoke, eating every trace of light.

The one who’d called Revelio, furthest from him and his group, wasn’t so lucky. Cassian couldn’t see it happen, but the sound was enough. A short, wet scream, cut clean halfway through. Then another. Then nothing.

He took quick, shallow breaths, every muscle ready to bolt. Someone nearby whimpered. Someone else whispered for silence. Their voices broke apart.

Then the last of the screams died out.

Completely.

Cassian could feel the others close, Bathsheda’s hand at his sleeve, Coriolanus breathing somewhere to the left, but beyond his group? Nothing.

He clenched his wand tighter. “No one cast a spell. If you cast, they’ll find you.”

He wasn’t sure that was true, but it was the best lie he had.

A faint noise flickered somewhere beyond their circle, like something dragging cloth over stone, and then faded again.

Other clusters crept closer, drawn by the faint sound of breathing that wasn’t their own. Cassian could smell sweat, fear, and, Gods help them, urine. Someone’s teeth were chattering behind him, loud as coins in a tin.

The dark pressed in. No one dared cast light again. The creatures were still there, he could feel them. They shifted when the group moved. It seemed, as he thought, as long as no one could see them, they didn’t strike. They only existed.

“Keep moving,” Cassian muttered. “Quietly.”

No one answered. The faint scrape of boots followed him.

The tunnel widened, then sloped. Somewhere ahead, a low groan echoed, stone against stone.

Then, at last, the air changed. A faint draft brushed across his face, open space. He slowed, hand out, and his palm met cool air instead of stone.

“We’re through,” he said.

One by one, they stepped forward, boots scuffing against solid floor. The air no longer breathed back.

“Light,” Cassian said softly.

Bathsheda raised her wand. “Lumos.”

White light spilled out, weak but enough.

The chamber stretched wide around them, carved clean into the rock. The others filtered in, blinking, shaking, faces drawn and pale. Those that had made it out stood in clusters, half counting themselves, half afraid to.

When the light hit Cassian’s face, she saw the same expression as in the previous room. Seeing the room, Cassian thought he might actually be dying. Either that, or the universe was playing a bad joke. He nearly went flat on his arse.

“Oh, not again,” he muttered.

He knew this place. Every curve, every cut of stone.

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