HP, Savior Of The Old World 6

The morning light streaming through the tall windows of their guest chambers painted golden rectangles across the breakfast table, where an impressive spread had been laid out by servants who'd clearly arrived before dawn. Harry watched steam rise from fresh bread and noticed how the serving girl arranging fruit platters kept her eyes firmly downcast, her hands trembling slightly as she worked.

"Good morning," he said gently, trying to project harmlessness.

The girl squeaked, nearly dropping the silver tongs she held. "B-blessed one," she whispered, making a sign that might have been religious before practically fleeing toward the door.

"Wait, you don't have to—" Harry started, but she was already gone, the door clicking shut with desperate finality.

Fleur poured herself tea with deliberate calm, though her eyes tracked the servants' hasty retreat. "They are terrified of you, mon coeur."

"Of us," Harry corrected, slumping into his chair. Through the windows, he could see Nuln awakening: forge smoke beginning to rise from the industrial quarter, market crowds gathering in the squares below, the ordinary life of a city that had no idea how close it had come to annihilation just days ago.

We should speak this way, Fleur's voice echoed in his mind, their mental connection as natural as breathing after years of practice. The walls likely have ears.

Agreed. Harry buttered a piece of bread, maintaining the appearance of a normal breakfast while their real conversation happened in silence. Elspeth's warnings last night... we're walking blind through a minefield.

At least she was honest about it. Fleur delicately sectioned an orange, its citrus scent filling the air. She wants something from us, but she's not hiding that fact.

The door opened again, admitting two more servants. An elderly woman carried a pot of what smelled like coffee, and a young man with a persistent, hacking cough bore additional covered dishes. Harry tried not to react as they approached, but he could feel his magic stirring, reaching out without his conscious direction.

The young man's cough cut off mid-hack. He stood frozen, eyes wide, breathing deeply for what was probably the first time in months. The elderly woman, who'd been moving with the careful shuffle of aged joints, suddenly straightened, her movements becoming fluid and easy.

"Sigmar preserve us," the old woman whispered, her voice trembling with religious awe. She set down the coffee pot with hands that no longer shook from arthritis, then grabbed the young man's arm. "Come, Wilhelm. We must not linger in their divine presence."

They fled even faster than the first girl had, leaving Harry staring at the closed door with mounting frustration.

I can't control it, he sent to Fleur, his mental voice tight with annoyance. Everyone who gets near me is being changed without their consent.

Which makes us valuable, not vulnerable, Fleur replied pragmatically, though he felt her own discomfort through their bond. They cannot simply lock us away or execute us when our mere presence heals their people.

But for how long? What happens when the novelty wears off? When they realize I can't turn it off, can't direct it only at their enemies?

Fleur reached across the table to squeeze his hand. Then we ensure we are too valuable in other ways to discard. Which means we need information. Real information, not fragments and hints.

Harry nodded, pulling a piece of parchment from the writing desk nearby. Let's make a list. Everything we need to know to survive here.

They worked in mental silence for several minutes, Harry's quill scratching across the parchment as they catalogued their ignorance:

Political Structures: Elspeth had given them basics. Emperor, Elector Counts, semi-autonomous provinces. But what were the real power dynamics? Who could override whom? What were the unwritten rules that actually governed?

Magical Theory: Why was mixing the Winds of Magic considered dangerous? What was this "Dhar" corruption Elspeth mentioned? How did their College system actually work? What were the limits and laws governing magic use?

Religious Institutions: Who was Sigmar really? What actual authority did his church wield? Were there other gods? How did divine and arcane magic interact?

Military Capabilities: They'd seen medieval-style soldiers with firearms, but what was the full extent of this world's warfare? What could they field against Chaos? How did magical and mundane forces integrate?

Economic Systems: How did trade work between provinces? What was the currency? Who controlled resources? Understanding money meant understanding power.

Geography: What lay beyond the Empire's borders? Elspeth had mentioned Bretonnia, dwarfs, elves; what else existed? Where were the threats, the allies, the neutral parties?

History of Chaos: They knew Chaos was the enemy, but what was the full story? How many incursions had there been? How had they been stopped? What was this "End Times" the Wood Elves had mentioned?

We need sources, Fleur observed, watching Harry write. Multiple ones, to verify information.

Elspeth will tell us things, but she wants something in return. Probably to study my connection to Death. Harry set down the quill. Emmanuelle controls our access to everyone else, but she's calculating political advantage with every word.

The Emperor's representatives arrive in two days. Fleur's mental voice carried a note of warning. They'll have their own agenda.

And the Colleges of Magic will want to examine us like specimens. Harry could already imagine it: wizards with specialized knowledge, each seeing them through the lens of their own Wind, none understanding the whole.

A sharp knock interrupted their planning. Harry quickly folded the parchment and slipped it into his pocket as Fleur called out, "Enter."

The steward from yesterday appeared, bowing so low his nose nearly touched his knees. "Lord and Lady Peverell, the Countess Emmanuelle requests the honor of your presence for a morning audience." He straightened slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor. "I am also instructed to inform you that several delegations arrived during the night. Bretonnian knights have established pavilions in the courtyard, insisting on 'proper chivalric accommodation.' A group of Dwarf rangers demanded quarters 'suitable for their dignity' and are currently inspecting the wine cellars with great suspicion. Additionally, representatives from multiple Colleges of Magic have been arriving since dawn, with more expected throughout the day. The Supreme Patriarch Balthasar Gelt himself leads a delegation, which I'm told is... unprecedented. They have submitted formal requests for audiences at your earliest convenience."

Harry and Fleur exchanged a meaningful look. The clock was ticking. Less than forty-eight hours before the Emperor's formal delegation arrived and the real political maneuvering began.

We meet Emmanuelle, Harry decided, standing from the table. But on our terms.

Agreed, Fleur rose gracefully, smoothing her robes. We demand comprehensive education as the price for any cooperation. No more vague hints and political games.

"Please inform the Countess we will attend her shortly," Harry told the steward, who bowed again and retreated with visible relief.

As they prepared to leave their chambers, Harry felt a cold resolve settling over him. They were strangers in a strange land, surrounded by people who saw them as tools, weapons, or miracles. But they'd survived the end of one world. They could learn to navigate this one.

No more accepting whatever scraps of information they choose to feed us, he sent to Fleur as they reached the door. We set the terms, or we give them nothing.

Oui, she replied, her mental voice carrying the steel he'd fallen in love with. Let them all compete to educate us. Their eagerness will reveal more than their words.

Harry opened the door to find four guards waiting. An honor escort that was as much protection as it was surveillance. He smiled at them with genuine warmth that made them shift uncomfortably.

"Gentlemen," he said pleasantly, "shall we go meet your Countess?"

As they walked through the palace corridors, Harry noticed how servants pressed themselves against walls to let them pass, how whispers followed in their wake, how the very air seemed to shimmer with anticipation and fear. Through the tall windows, he could see the Bretonnian pavilions Emmanuelle's steward had mentioned: bright silk tents with heraldic devices that meant nothing to him yet. Somewhere below, dwarfs were apparently critiquing the wine storage.

The game was beginning in earnest now. But this time, Harry thought as they approached the audience chamber, they wouldn't be playing blind.

Emmanuelle stood before her full-length mirror, studying her reflection with the calculating eye of someone who had learned to weaponize beauty long before it had been miraculously restored. The woman looking back at her could have been her daughter. Skin smooth as cream, the subtle lines around her eyes completely vanished, her figure possessing the taut elegance of youth rather than the carefully maintained grace of middle age.

She turned slightly, watching how the morning light caught the golden highlights in her hair that had returned without any alchemical assistance. Thirty years old at most, perhaps younger. The transformation hadn't escaped notice. She'd intercepted three marriage proposals already this morning from visiting nobles who'd suddenly found the Countess of Wissenland far more interesting than her political position alone would merit.

"Magnificent," she murmured, running a finger along her jawline where yesterday there had been the first hints of softening. "And terrifying."

The gratitude she felt toward Harry Peverell was genuine. What woman wouldn't be grateful for such a gift? But the calculating part of her mind, the part that had kept Wissenland prosperous despite being surrounded by ambitious neighbors, recognized the danger. If his mere presence could reverse decades of aging, what else could he do? And more importantly, what would others do to control such power?

She moved to her desk, where the morning's intelligence reports lay spread like a map of brewing chaos. Her spymaster had been busy through the night, and the picture emerging was one of barely controlled panic among the Empire's power structures.

The first report bore the seal of her agent in the Colleges of Magic: "URGENT - Supreme Patriarch Balthasar Gelt himself has arrived. Repeat: THE Supreme Patriarch, not a mere representative. This is unprecedented. He traveled through the night with Magister Patriarch Gregor Martak of Bright Order. Their personal presence indicates panic at highest levels of magical authority. Representatives from Light, Celestial, and other Colleges also arriving throughout day. Grey College already has agents in city (at least three identified, likely more). All discussing 'unregistered reality manipulator' and 'potential violation of Teclisian Protocols at existential scale.' Fear underlying academic interest is palpable. Gelt would not come personally unless he viewed this as emergency requiring direct intervention."

She set that aside, picking up the next. This one came from her contact in the Church of Sigmar: "War Priest Karl Hoch arrived before dawn, demanded immediate audience with 'blessed ones.' Claims divine vision directing him here. Bringing full retinue of flagellants and warrior priests. Grand Theogonist himself may follow if Hoch's reports confirm divine nature. Church split between viewing Peverells as Sigmar's chosen or dangerous heretics. Hoch instructed to determine which."

The Bretonnian report was briefer but no less concerning: "Duke Gastonne d'Artois leads delegation, accompanied by Grail Damsel Adalene. Primary concern: whether Peverells' magic threatens covenant with Lady of Lake. Secondary: if male magic user violates Bretonnian law. Damsel insisting on private audience to 'test purity of their souls.' Duke prepared to declare quest if threat identified."

From the Dwarf delegation: "Thane Grimm Ironfoot of Karak Norn seeks formal recording of 'Great Shaking' in Book of Grudges. Determining if Peverells responsible for Skaven fleeing (positive) or disrupting ancestor stones (potential grudge). Brought master runesmith to evaluate magical emanations. Unusually cautious. Treating Peverells as either valuable allies or existential threat."

Emmanuelle rubbed her temples, feeling a headache building despite her restored youth. Each faction saw Harry and Fleur through their own lens, each prepared to claim or condemn based on narrow interpretations. And she had less than forty-eight hours before Karl Franz's official delegation arrived with the full weight of Imperial authority.

She'd already received von Stauffen's preliminary message: "Emperor expresses gratitude for your hospitality to our unexpected guests. Formal delegation departs at dawn, arriving evening of second day as agreed. Baron Heinrich von Holswig-Schliestein leads, accompanied by Battle Wizard Helmut Weiss and full diplomatic corps. Emperor's personal interest extremely high. Handle with utmost care until official contact established."

Translation: Don't let them leave, don't let them commit to anyone else, and for Sigmar's sake don't let them accidentally destroy half the Empire before we figure out what they are.

A knock interrupted her brooding. "Enter."

Her steward bowed. "Lord and Lady Peverell, my lady."

"Send them in. And ensure we're not disturbed."

Harry and Fleur entered with notably different bearing than she'd observed at dinner. Gone was the uncertain politeness of strangers trying to navigate unknown customs. They moved with quiet confidence, and when Harry's green eyes met hers, she saw calculation there that matched her own.

"Countess," Harry said with a slight bow that managed to be respectful without being subservient. "Thank you for seeing us."

"Please, sit." She gestured to the chairs before her desk, noting how they positioned themselves. Close enough to touch, angles allowing both to watch the door. Survivors' habits. "I trust you slept well?"

"As well as could be expected when one can feel every magical current in the city," Harry replied, settling into his chair with casual grace. "Your Skaven problem has resolved itself, by the way. The entire under-warren is empty. They fled rather than remain near me."

Emmanuelle blinked. The Skaven presence beneath Nuln had been a state secret, known only to highest authorities. "How could you possibly—"

"I can feel the absence," he said simply. "The tunnels sing with their terror. Whatever I am to them, it's worth abandoning centuries of established territory to escape."

"Which brings us to why we're here," Fleur interjected, her accent lending musical quality to her measured words. "We need to discuss our situation frankly."

Emmanuelle leaned back, intrigued despite herself. "I'm listening."

"We want comprehensive education about your world," Harry stated without preamble. "History, politics, magic, religion, economics. Everything. And we want it from multiple sources so we can verify information independently."

The directness caught her off-guard. She'd prepared for negotiation, manipulation, gradual extraction of concessions. Not this blunt acknowledgment of ignorance coupled with demands.

"You're admitting you know nothing about our world," she said slowly, testing. "That's... remarkably honest. And remarkably dangerous for you."

"Less dangerous than pretending knowledge we don't have," Fleur replied. "We've seen what happens when people make assumptions. Your Chaos forces assumed they couldn't truly die. They were wrong."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop at the reminder of what Harry had done to three Greater Daemons. Not banished, not defeated, but unmade.

"What specifically are you proposing?" Emmanuelle asked, her political mind already racing through possibilities.

"Multiple instructors," Harry said. "Different perspectives on the same topics. We want to hear from your Colleges, your Church, your military leaders. We want to understand not just the official version but the actual truth."

"And we want to choose some instructors ourselves," Fleur added. "Not just accept whoever you select."

Emmanuelle couldn't help but smile. They were clever, these two. Refusing to let her control the flow of information while acknowledging they needed her to facilitate access.

"You realize every faction currently establishing camps in my courtyard wants to educate you their way," she pointed out, gesturing toward the window where Bretonnian pavilions were visible. "The Colleges want to study and probably restrict you. The Church wants to claim you as divine champions or burn you as heretics. The Dwarfs want to determine if you're grudge-worthy."

"Which is why we need multiple perspectives," Harry said. "Let them all make their cases. We'll draw our own conclusions."

"And what do I get from this arrangement?" Emmanuelle asked, though she was already calculating advantages.

"Our presence through the Emperor's visit," Harry replied immediately. "We won't commit to anyone, including him, without careful consideration. And we'll consider your counsel seriously, though not as binding."

"You want Elspeth as primary instructor," Emmanuelle observed, having anticipated this. "You trust the death mage more than me."

"We trust her transparent self-interest more than hidden agendas," Fleur said diplomatically. "She wants to understand Harry's connection to Death. That's honest. You want political advantage. That's also honest, but more complex."

Emmanuelle found herself genuinely laughing. "You're right, of course. Though I should mention Elspeth has her own complexities. That woman has survived three centuries by being far cleverer than she appears."

"Everyone has agendas," Harry said with a shrug. "We just prefer the ones we can see."

They negotiated for another twenty minutes, hammering out details. Emmanuelle would facilitate access to various teachers and wouldn't restrict their movements. They would remain in Nuln through the Emperor's visit and give her position fair consideration. She would arrange meetings with the various delegations but wouldn't dictate terms.

As they rose to leave, Emmanuelle realized she'd misjudged them. These weren't naive strangers stumbling through political complexities. They were experienced survivors operating without complete information, which made them far more dangerous and valuable than she'd anticipated.

"One more thing," Harry said at the door, turning back with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Your restoration, the healing of your soldiers. I didn't do it consciously. I can't turn it off, can't direct it specifically. Everyone near me is affected whether I will it or not."

"Is that a warning or an apology?" Emmanuelle asked.

"Both," he replied. "And a request for understanding. I'm not a weapon you can aim, Countess. I'm more like... weather. I simply am what I am."

After they left, Emmanuelle stood at her window, watching the foreign delegations below scurry about like ants around spilled honey. She'd thought she had three days to secure their loyalty. Now she realized she might never secure it at all. She could only earn their respect through honesty they clearly valued above political maneuvering.

Her reflection caught her eye in the window glass, still young, still beautiful. Harry's gift, unconscious though it might have been. She touched her restored face thoughtfully.

Less than forty-eight hours before the Emperor's delegation arrived. But perhaps that didn't matter as much as she'd thought. The Peverells weren't pieces on a board she understood. They were playing a different game entirely, one where truth held more power than manipulation.

For the first time in her political career, Emmanuelle von Liebwitz wondered if honesty might actually be the best policy.

The conference room Emmanuelle led them to was a study in Imperial authority: dark wood panels bearing the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar, portraits of stern-faced Elector Counts glowering from gilded frames, and a table so heavily polished it reflected the afternoon light streaming through tall windows like a mirror. Three figures waited within, and Harry felt the air itself recoil from their combined presence.

The Winds of Magic didn't just flow around these wizards. They were fundamentally altered by them, each man a living lens that bent reality through their particular obsession.

"May I present Supreme Patriarch Balthasar Gelt of the Gold College," Emmanuelle said with careful formality, gesturing to the figure at the table's head.

Harry couldn't see the man's face. A golden mask covered everything from hairline to jaw, its surface etched with symbols that hurt to look at directly. When Gelt inclined his head in acknowledgment, the mask caught the light in ways that suggested it wasn't merely decorative but somehow fused with the flesh beneath. His robes were cloth-of-gold that seemed to shift between fabric and actual metal with each movement.

"Magister Patriarch Gregor Martak of the Bright College," Emmanuelle continued, indicating the man to Gelt's right.

Where Gelt was concealment, Martak was revelation. Every inch of visible skin bore the price of channeling Aqshy. Burn scars created a topography of past battles across his face and hands, some fresh enough to still look angry, others ancient and white. The air around him shimmered with heat distortion, and Harry could smell sulfur and hot metal. The man's eyes were the color of forge-fire, and when he breathed out, tiny sparks danced in the exhaled air.

"And our dear Lady Magister Elspeth von Draken of the Amethyst College, whom you've already met."

Elspeth had traded her normal attire for formal robes of deep purple that seemed to absorb light. Her restored youth was even more striking in the afternoon sun: skin pale as moonlight, dark hair gleaming with health that centuries of death magic should have stolen. She stood slightly apart from the other two, and Harry noticed the careful distance they maintained from each other, as if their respective Winds might react violently to proximity.

Though Elspeth held no formal Matriarch title, the Amethyst Order's leadership structure was deliberately opaque, her presence here alongside two Patriarchs spoke to her actual authority. Emmanuelle had once mentioned that Elspeth answered to no one save perhaps Morr himself, and even the Supreme Patriarch treated her with wary respect rather than hierarchical command.

"Lord and Lady Peverell," Gelt's voice resonated strangely through his mask, taking on metallic harmonics that made Harry's teeth ache. "We are... most eager to make your acquaintance."

Eager like wolves spotting a lamb, Fleur observed silently as they took their seats. Emmanuelle positioned herself at the table's foot, clearly intending to observe rather than participate.

"The pleasure is ours," Harry replied carefully. "Though I confess, your titles are somewhat... opaque to us. Supreme Patriarch means what, exactly?"

Gelt's mask turned toward him. "I hold authority over all eight Colleges of Magic within the Empire, granted by electoral victory among the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of each Order. My word carries the weight of Imperial law in all matters arcane."

"Second only to the Emperor himself in magical affairs," Martak added, his scarred face twisting into what might have been a smile. "Every hedge wizard, every College journeyman, every magical practitioner within the Empire's borders answers to the Supreme Patriarch's authority."

"Or they are declared rogue," Elspeth said quietly, "and hunted accordingly."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop despite Martak's radiant heat. Harry felt Fleur's hand brush his under the table, a warning to tread carefully.

"I see," Harry said neutrally. "And this authority extends to... everyone? Regardless of origin or type of magic?"

"The Articles of Imperial Magic are quite clear," Gelt replied, his fingers steepling before him. Harry noticed they were stained gold at the tips, as if he'd been dipping them in molten metal. "Since Magnus the Pious established the Colleges, all human magic users within the Empire must submit to regulation. It is not a matter of choice but of law."

"Your personal presence is quite the statement," Emmanuelle observed carefully from her position at the table's foot. "The Supreme Patriarch rarely leaves Altdorf for field assessments."

"These are hardly normal circumstances, Countess." Gelt's masked face turned toward Harry and Fleur. "When reports suggest someone capable of wielding all eight Winds without corruption, without Dhar formation, without any of the established frameworks we've spent centuries developing... personal investigation becomes necessary."

"Translation: you panicked," Harry said mildly.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Emmanuelle looked like she might faint. Even Martak's perpetual scowl deepened. But Gelt's posture shifted slightly, if Harry didn't know better, he might have sworn the Supreme Patriarch was amused.

"Concerned would be the diplomatic term," Gelt replied. "But yes, Lord Peverell. Your very existence contradicts fundamental principles of magical theory. That warrants the attention of the Empire's highest magical authority."

"Tell us," Martak leaned forward, his excitement overcoming formality, "how do you do it? How do you channel multiple Winds simultaneously without creating Dhar?"

The questions came rapid-fire after that, barely giving Harry time to breathe between them:

"What mental disciplines do you employ to keep the Winds separate?"

"How do you prevent contamination when they mix?"

"What focusing techniques allow such precise control?"

"Can your method be taught to others?"

"Have you experienced any signs of corruption?"

"What protective wards do you maintain?"

Harry raised a hand, and the barrage ceased. "I'm afraid you're operating under a misunderstanding. I don't have a technique. I don't use mental disciplines or focusing methods. The magic simply... responds."

The silence that followed was deafening. Gelt's mask betrayed nothing, but his hands gripped the table's edge hard enough to leave indentations in the wood. Martak's control slipped, flames dancing along his shoulders before he forcefully suppressed them.

"That's impossible," Martak said flatly. "Magic requires structure, discipline, years of training to channel safely. Without it, you'd be a walking Chaos portal."

Harry glanced at Elspeth, who nodded slightly. "According to Lady Magister von Draken's observations, I don't draw from ambient magical currents at all. I appear to generate the Winds directly."

If the previous silence had been deafening, this one was tomblike. Even Elspeth's eyes widened at the public confirmation of what she'd observed privately.

"Generate?" Gelt's voice had lost its measured control. "You're saying you create the Winds of Magic from nothing?"

"From myself, apparently," Harry said, trying to ignore how both Patriarchs were looking at him like a particularly fascinating specimen. "Though I don't understand the mechanics any more than you do."

"This changes everything," Martak breathed, actual smoke rising from his robes now. "If you can generate pure Winds without drawing from the ambient flow, without risk of Chaos contamination..."

"The applications would revolutionize magical theory," Gelt finished. "We must study this immediately. The College facilities in Altdorf have equipment that could..."

"Perhaps we should discuss terms before making plans," Fleur interjected smoothly.

Gelt straightened, his mask reflecting the afternoon sun as he shifted back into formal mode. "Of course. The Colleges are prepared to offer you comprehensive instruction in magical theory and practice. Full access to our libraries, including restricted texts on Wind manipulation and Chaos corruption. Protection from any... misunderstandings about your nature. In exchange, we require study access and your formal agreement to College oversight as outlined in the Articles of Imperial Magic."

Harry and Fleur exchanged glances, then a rapid exchange in French that made Gelt's mask tilt with interest.

"Ils veulent nous mettre en cage," Fleur murmured. They want to cage us.

"Oui, mais ils offrent des connaissances." Yes, but they offer knowledge.

"Sous leurs conditions. C'est un piège." Under their conditions. It's a trap.

Harry turned back to the wizards. "I appreciate your offer, and I'm willing to participate in limited observation sessions and share what knowledge I can articulate. However, I can't agree to binding myself to College authority when I don't fully understand what that entails."

"It's not negotiable," Gelt said, his tone hardening. "Imperial law is clear. All magic users must submit to College regulation or be declared rogue."

"Even those whose magic might not follow your rules?" Harry asked mildly. "I came here from... elsewhere. Your regulations were designed for humans channeling ambient magic. I'm not certain they apply to whatever I am."

"The law makes no exceptions," Martak growled, heat radiating from him in waves. "The Bright Order has hunted rogue pyromancers across three continents. We don't tolerate unregulated magic that could summon daemons or cause Chaos incursions."

"Except," Harry said quietly, "I make Chaos entities flee in terror. The Skaven abandoned an entire city rather than remain near me. Three Greater Daemons died, truly died, at my presence. Perhaps your regulations, designed to prevent Chaos corruption, don't apply to someone who appears to be antithetical to it."

The logic was unassailable, and Harry could see both Patriarchs struggling with it. Their entire worldview was built on the premise that unregulated magic led inevitably to Chaos corruption. But here sat living proof that their assumptions might be incomplete.

"Gentlemen," Emmanuelle interjected with diplomatic skill, "perhaps this discussion should wait until the Emperor's delegation arrives. Let Karl Franz himself determine how Imperial law applies to such unique circumstances."

It was a masterful deflection, giving everyone an excuse to step back from confrontation. Gelt's mask turned toward her, then back to Harry.

"The Colleges will expect cooperation while we await Imperial judgment," he said finally.

"And you'll have it," Harry replied. "Within reason. I'll participate in observation sessions, answer questions where I can, and try to understand my own abilities better. But I won't submit to authority I don't comprehend or that may not even apply to me."

"That's... acceptable," Gelt said, though his tone suggested it was anything but. "For now."

As the Patriarchs rose to leave, Martak paused at the door. "You should know, Lord Peverell, that there are those in the Colleges who will view your refusal as evidence of corruption. They'll push for immediate action rather than waiting for Imperial decree."

"Then they'll learn what the daemons learned," Harry said simply.

The threat was delivered without heat, which somehow made it more effective. Martak's scarred face showed something that might have been respect before he followed Gelt out.

Elspeth lingered, a slight smile playing at her restored lips. "That went exactly as I expected. Well done."

"You expected us to refuse?" Fleur asked.

"I expected you to have spine," Elspeth replied. "The Colleges are used to absolute authority in magical matters. Someone who can tell them 'no' and make it stick? That's... refreshing." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Be careful, though. Gelt is brilliant and absolutely convinced of his own righteousness. He'll find a way to study you, with or without your permission."

After she left, Emmanuelle applauded slowly. "Magnificent. You've managed to simultaneously intrigue and frustrate the most powerful magical authority in the Empire."

"Is that good or bad?" Harry asked.

"That depends entirely on what the Emperor decides in two days," Emmanuelle replied. "But you've bought yourself time and maintained your independence. In the game of Imperial politics, that's a victory."

Through the window, Harry could see the Colleges' delegation departing, Gelt's golden robes catching the light like a beacon. He'd won this round, but he had the feeling the game was just beginning.

We need to learn faster, he sent to Fleur. They won't wait long before trying something.

Then we make sure we're ready, she replied, her mental voice carrying the same steel that had seen them through the end of one world.

The palace chapel was smaller than Fleur had expected, tucked away in the eastern wing like an afterthought of faith amid political grandeur. Yet every surface proclaimed devotion with almost desperate intensity. Hammer iconography dominated the space: carved into pew ends, embossed on brass fixtures, painted in frescoes that covered the vaulted ceiling. Twin-tailed comets blazed across every wall, their golden trails seeming to converge on the altar where a massive warhammer rested on crimson velvet.

Afternoon light streamed through stained glass windows, painting the floor in fragments of color. The central window depicted a golden-armored warrior (Sigmar, she assumed) standing triumphant over a pile of greenskin corpses, his hammer raised toward a twin-tailed comet that blessed his victory. The artistry was crude compared to the delicate enchantments she'd known in France's magical cathedrals, but the faith behind it was palpable.

She wasn't alone.

The man waiting in the front pew could have been carved from the same stone as the chapel's foundations. Massive didn't begin to describe him. He seemed to occupy space with the weight of conviction itself. His plate armor was a work of art and devotion combined, every surface etched with prayers in Gothic script so dense they created their own texture. Hammers of every size decorated the pauldrons, breastplate, and gauntlets. A warhammer that looked like it could demolish walls leaned against the pew beside him, its head inscribed with symbols that made her eyes water to look at directly.

"Lady Peverell." His voice rumbled like distant thunder. He didn't rise, didn't offer any courtesy of greeting. "I am War Priest Karl Hoch, Warrior of Sigmar, Keeper of the Northern Marches' Faith. Sit."

It wasn't a request. Fleur settled into the pew across from him, noting how he'd positioned himself between her and the exit. The afternoon light through the stained glass painted half his face in golden radiance while leaving the other in shadow, creating an effect that was likely intentional.

"Tell me of your faith," he said without preamble. Dark eyes studied her with the intensity of someone who'd spent decades identifying heresy in its subtlest forms. "Which gods did you serve in your homeland?"

Fleur kept her expression neutral despite her irritation at the interrogation's tone. "We came from a very distant place, War Priest. Our gods were... different from yours."

"All gods are but aspects of Sigmar's light or shadows cast by the Dark Powers," Hoch stated with absolute certainty. "There is no middle ground in the cosmic order. You either serve Order or Chaos. Which was it?"

"Neizzer, by your definitions." She met his gaze steadily. "Our world 'ad its own balance, its own struggles between light and darkness."

"Your world." His eyes narrowed. "You speak of it in past tense."

Fleur chose her words carefully. "Our 'omeland was consumed by fire and corruption. Powers beyond mortal comprehension tore through ze barriers of reality itself. We barely escaped with our lives."

"Chaos." The word dropped from his lips like a curse. "The Ruinous Powers destroyed your homeland."

She neither confirmed nor denied, letting him draw his own conclusions. "Ze corruption was absolute. Nozzing survived except us, and zat only through desperate means we didn't fully control."

"Show me your fire," Hoch commanded suddenly. "The witnesses speak of silver flames that burn without heat, that purify rather than destroy. Show me this miracle."

Fleur raised her hand, calling upon the inheritance that had flowed through her bloodline since before recorded history. Flames danced across her fingertips, not the orange-red of normal fire, not the angry crimson of the Bright College's Aqshy, but silver-white tongues of light that seemed to exist independent of fuel or air.

Hoch leaned forward, his armor creaking. "This is not the Wind of Fire. The Bright Wizards are wrong." His voice carried a note of satisfaction at their error. "What god blessed you with this gift?"

"No god," Fleur replied honestly. "Zis comes from my bloodline, an inheritance from ancestors who were not entirely 'uman."

The War Priest's face darkened. "Only the divine can grant such power. You speak of witchcraft, of pacts made with..."

"I speak of Veela," Fleur interrupted, her accent thickening with annoyance. "Fae blood zat predates your Empire, your gods, perhaps even your world. My grandmother's grandmother's grandmother was not 'uman but something else, something zat existed between mortal and divine without serving eizzer."

She could see his theological framework cracking like ice under spring sun. His faith said power came from gods or daemons, nothing else. Yet here she sat, wielding fire that burned with purity his trained senses couldn't deny, claiming an origin that fit neither category.

"The fae are children of Chaos," he said, but uncertainty had crept into his voice. "Creatures of whim and destruction."

"Some fae, perhaps. But Veela are beings of passion and beauty, of fire zat creates as much as it destroys." She let the flames spread up her arm, noting how he didn't flinch despite their proximity. "Look at it, War Priest. Really look. Do you see corruption zere? Do you sense ze taint of your Dark Gods?"

Hoch stared at the silver fire for a long moment. She could almost hear his thoughts, his training screaming 'heresy' while his eyes saw something that burned cleaner than any Sigmarite blessing he'd witnessed.

"And your husband?" His voice had roughened. "What power grants him the ability to destroy daemons permanently? What god or daemon or force makes Chaos itself flee in terror?"

Fleur laughed. She couldn't help it. The absurdity of suggesting Harry served Chaos when they literally ran from him was too much.

"You find this amusing?" Hoch's hand moved toward his hammer.

"I find it absurd," Fleur replied, her laughter subsiding. "'Arry serves no Chaos god, made no pacts with daemons. Zey flee because 'e is their antithesis. Death itself walks beside 'im, not as master but as companion. When 'e destroys a daemon, it doesn't return to ze Warp to reform. It simply... ends. Ceases. Is unmade from existence itself."

The color drained from Hoch's weathered face. "That's not possible. Only Sigmar himself has shown such power, and even he merely banishes..."

"'Arry is not Sigmar," Fleur said firmly. "'E is something else. Something your theology 'asn't accounted for because it comes from beyond your world's understanding."

She watched emotions war across the War Priest's face: terror at implications beyond his faith's scope, fascination at a potential weapon against Chaos, calculation about how the Cult should respond. His fingers drummed against his armored thigh, a nervous gesture that seemed out of place on such a massive frame.

"Will you acknowledge Sigmar's supremacy?" he asked finally. "Submit to the Cult's guidance? Allow us to present you as divine instruments sent to aid the Empire in its eternal struggle?"

"Non."

The simple word hung between them like a blade.

"We respect your faith," Fleur continued before he could respond. "We 'onor those who stand against Chaos. But we are not tools for anyone's politics, not even your church's. We came 'ere by accident, not divine mission. We'll fight Chaos because it's right, not because we're ordered to. We won't pretend to be something we're not to serve your theological needs."

Hoch's jaw clenched so hard she could hear his teeth grinding. "You put me in an impossible position, Lady Peverell. I cannot condemn you as heretics. You're too powerful, too effective against our enemies, too obviously uncorrupted. But I cannot endorse you without submission to the Cult's authority. It would set a precedent that would unravel centuries of theological order."

"Zen don't do eizzer," Fleur suggested. "Simply report ze truth. We're not your enemies, but we're not your servants eizzer."

The War Priest stood abruptly, his armor clanking as he retrieved his hammer. For a moment, Fleur tensed, ready to defend herself. But he merely slung the weapon across his back with ease.

"I will report to His Holiness the Grand Theogonist that you are not tainted by Chaos, but your nature remains... theologically uncertain. The Cult will neither condemn nor endorse you until the highest religious authority makes a final determination." He paused at the chapel door. "In the meantime, I strongly suggest you avoid public displays that might confuse the faithful about the source of your power."

"You want us to 'ide what we are," Fleur said flatly.

"I want to avoid a religious war while we're fighting the real enemy," Hoch replied. "Some of my brother priests would burn you for existing outside Sigmar's light. Others would worship you as living saints. Neither serves the Empire's survival."

He left without another word, his heavy footsteps echoing through the chapel like drumbeats. Fleur remained seated, studying the stained glass window where Sigmar stood eternal in his triumph. The golden warrior seemed to be watching her, hammer raised in threat or blessing. She couldn't tell which.

Politics dressed as faith, she thought, rising from the pew. At least that's familiar.

She made her way back through the palace corridors, noting how servants scattered at her approach. Word had spread about the War Priest's visit, and now they looked at her with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. Some made religious gestures as she passed, not quite the sign of Sigmar's hammer, but something close.

They need us to be something we're not, she realized. Heroes from their stories, saints from their scripture. The truth? That we're refugees from a dead world stumbling through theirs, would break them.

She found Harry still trapped with the Dwarf delegation in one of the palace's many meeting rooms. Through the partially open door, she could hear the methodical voice of what must be their scribe:

"...and the angle of descent was thirty-seven degrees from the horizontal, you say? Not thirty-six? Not thirty-eight? The accuracy matters for the Book, Lord Peverell. Every detail must be exact, or it's a grudge against truth itself..."

Harry's eyes met hers through the doorway with the desperate look of a man who'd been answering variations of the same question for hours. The Bretonnians had taken their three hours this morning, the Colleges their formal audience this afternoon, and now the Dwarfs were deep into their fourth hour of documentation. He'd barely eaten since breakfast, and Fleur could see the exhaustion in his posture despite his restored youth. Tomorrow would be even worse, with the Emperor's delegation arriving. They were burning through their limited energy dealing with faction after faction, each demanding time and attention they could barely spare.

Soon, she mouthed, then continued to their chambers.

The sun was setting by the time Harry finally escaped, looking haggard despite his restored youth. He collapsed onto their bed with a groan that would have been comedic if she didn't sympathize so deeply.

"They made me describe the crystal twenty-seven times," he said into the pillow. "From different angles. With different lighting considerations. The scribe actually produced a collection of pigment samples and made me verify the exact shade of gold against them."

"Ze War Priest interrogated me about theology," Fleur replied, lying beside him. "'E wanted to know if we'd submit to being ze Cult of Sigmar's divine instruments."

Harry turned his head to look at her. "Let me guess. You told him no."

"With diplomatic language, but yes." She traced patterns on his shoulder. "'E wasn't 'appy, but 'e couldn't condemn us eizzer. We're too useful against Chaos."

"Everyone wants to own us," Harry said quietly. "The Colleges want to study us, the Cult wants to claim us, the Dwarfs want to document us, and tomorrow the Bretonnians will probably want something equally impossible."

"And in two days, ze Emperor arrives."

They lay in comfortable silence as twilight deepened outside their windows. Somewhere in the palace, factions were planning, scheming, preparing arguments for why Harry and Fleur should belong to them. But here, in this moment, they belonged only to each other.

Harry stood at the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass as he watched Nuln sleep beneath a canopy of stars. The day had been exhausting in ways that had nothing to do with physical exertion. After the Dwarf delegation's obsessive documentation had come the Bretonnians, who'd spent three hours debating whether his magic violated their laws against male spellcasters. Their Grail Damsel had circled him like a suspicious cat, muttering about the Lady of the Lake's displeasure at "unnatural disturbances in the Weave."

Then had come dinner with various minor nobles, each angling for favor or information, followed by evening audiences with representatives from the other Colleges who'd arrived throughout the day. The Supreme Patriarch and Martak had taken the formal afternoon meeting, but the other Orders still wanted their own assessments. The Celestial Wizard had tried to read his future and nearly fainted when he'd encountered "a void where fate should be." The Jade Magister had been fascinated by how plants responded to his presence but horrified when she'd realized he wasn't channeling Ghyran at all. The Grey Wizard... well, Harry wasn't entirely certain there had been a Grey Wizard, but he'd felt watched in that particular way that suggested someone skilled in Ulgu had been observing from the shadows.

You should sleep, Fleur murmured from their bed, her voice thick with exhaustion. Tomorrow will bring more of ze same.

In a moment, Harry replied, but his attention had already shifted elsewhere.

It had become habit over the past few nights to extend his magical senses downward, checking the abandoned Skaven tunnels like a suspicious Auror checking a crime scene for returning criminals. The warrens remained empty, their previous inhabitants having fled so thoroughly that even the usual rats hadn't moved in to claim the space. Miles of tunnels carved with disturbing efficiency, all silent as graves.

Except...

Harry's eyes snapped fully open, his exhaustion evaporating as his senses caught something that shouldn't be there. Deep below, far deeper than he'd searched before, magic pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Not the sharp, manic energy of Skaven sorcery, but something else. Something that reeked of corruption and decay, of promises rotting from the inside out.

Chaos magic. But also... terror. Human terror, mixed with the particular flavor of pain that came from betrayal.

He pushed his awareness deeper, following the disturbance through layers of stone and forgotten passages. The source was buried in a collapsed section of tunnel, so far beneath the city that even the Skaven had probably forgotten it existed. The presence there felt wrong in every way, corrupted by Nurgle's touch but also abandoned by it, like a severed limb left to rot.

And it was dying. Slowly, agonizingly, but definitely dying.

Harry pulled on his clothes with the quick efficiency of someone who'd dressed in darkness during too many emergency calls. His Auror instincts, dormant since arriving in this world, roared back to life. Someone was in trouble. Someone who might have answers.

"What is it?" Fleur sat up, instantly alert. Years of marriage had taught her to read his moods, and she recognized his investigation face immediately.

"There's something in the tunnels. Someone, actually. Chaos-corrupted but... abandoned. Dying."

She was already reaching for her robes. "We go togezzer."

"Fleur, it could be a trap..."

"Everyzing 'ere could be a trap," she interrupted, her accent thickening as it always did when she was annoyed with him. "We are surrounded by people who want to use us, study us, worship us, or destroy us. At least zis is something we can investigate on our own terms."

She was right, of course. Harry helped her with the clasps of her traveling cloak, then moved to the window. "No point in explaining to guards why we're going for a midnight stroll."

"As if zey could stop us anyway," Fleur said with a slight smile.

Harry wrapped an arm around her waist, and with a thought, they lifted from the floor. The window opened at his gesture, not magic exactly, more like reality agreeing with his suggestion that it should be open. They floated out into the cool night air, descending along the palace's exterior wall like ghosts.

The gardens below erupted in impossible color as they passed. Night-blooming flowers that shouldn't exist in this climate burst from buds, their petals glowing faintly in the darkness. A tree that had been struggling with disease straightened its branches, bark healing over in seconds. Even the grass seemed to stand taller, reaching toward them as if they were the sun itself.

"You're getting stronger," Fleur observed as they touched down on a gravel path. "Or perhaps... less controlled?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted, guiding them toward the palace's outer wall. "It's like this world's magic wants to respond to me. Like it's been waiting for something and thinks I might be it."

They slipped through the palace grounds without encountering a single guard, whether through luck or because Harry's presence was unconsciously encouraging them to look elsewhere, he couldn't say. The city beyond was deep in slumber, only the occasional cat or rat moving through the streets.

Harry's senses pulled him northeast, toward the industrial district where the forges never fully cooled. The disturbance was clearer now, a wound in the fabric of reality that pulsed with sick desperation. As they walked, he noticed how the cobblestones beneath his feet seemed to clean themselves, centuries of grime dissolving into nothing. A patch of wall that had been covered in obscene graffiti simply... wasn't anymore, the stone smooth and unmarked as if freshly cut.

"'Ere," Fleur said, pointing to an ancient sewer grate near a collapsed warehouse. The metal was rusted nearly through, and the stench rising from it made her wrinkle her nose. "Zis leads down?"

Harry knelt beside the grate, his fingers barely touching the metal before it crumbled to rust-red powder. The corruption that had been eating at it for decades accelerated and completed in an instant, leaving only the hole behind.

"After you, my lady," he said with false cheer that didn't mask his growing unease.

They descended into darkness that Harry's wandless Lumos pushed back in a sphere of silver light. The sewer tunnel was ancient, predating the current city by centuries. But after only a few dozen feet, the worked stone gave way to something else, tunnels carved with disturbing organic efficiency, as if giant worms had eaten through the earth.

"Skaven," Harry said unnecessarily. The smell alone would have identified it: musk and fear and old death mixed with the acrid stench of warpstone.

The tunnels showed signs of panicked evacuation everywhere they looked. Tools dropped mid-use, their metal already beginning to rust in the damp air. Half-gnawed bones (some disturbingly human-shaped) scattered across the floor. Crude shrines to the Horned Rat had been deliberately defaced, their icons smashed with desperate fury.

"Ils avaient vraiment peur," Fleur murmured, examining a child-sized skeleton still wearing what might have been a collar. "An entire civilization, gone in one night."

"Because of me," Harry replied in the same language, the guilt evident in his voice.

"Non. Because of what you represent. Zere is a difference."

They descended deeper, following passages that branched and merged in patterns that hurt to contemplate. The corruption trail was stronger now, but it fled from Harry's approach like oil from water. Dark stains on the walls (Dhar accumulation from decades of warpstone use) simply evaporated as his light touched them, leaving clean stone behind.

Finally, after what felt like hours of descent, they found the collapsed section. The tunnel here had been deliberately destroyed, tons of rock and earth brought down to seal something in. Or perhaps to seal something out.

"There," Harry pointed to a gap near the floor where the collapse hadn't been complete. The corruption was leaking from there like pus from an infected wound.

They had to crawl through the gap, Fleur muttering French curses as her robes caught on jagged stones. On the other side was a small chamber, perhaps once a storage room or shrine, now a tomb.

The man trapped there might have been sixty years old, though corruption made it hard to tell. His legs were crushed beneath fallen stone, the injuries weeks old and festering despite the marks of Nurgle that covered his exposed skin. His robes had once been green and brown, decorated with symbols that hurt to look at: flies and skulls and diseased trees. Now they were just rags, stained with blood and worse things.

When Harry's light fell on him, the cultist's eyes (clouded with infection) widened in absolute terror.

"No," he wheezed, trying to drag himself backward despite his crushed legs. "No, not you. The Anathema. The ending that ends. The gods' abandonment made flesh."

Harry stopped several feet away, hands raised peacefully. "I'm not here to hurt you."

The cultist laughed, a sound like water gurgling through rotted pipes. "Hurt me? You've already destroyed me. Destroyed everything. Forty years of service, forty years of spreading Grandfather's gifts, and when you arrived..." He coughed, blood speckling his lips. "He cut me loose. Severed our connection rather than risk you finding him through it."

Fleur moved closer to Harry, her hand finding his. The cultist's words carried the weight of absolute despair, the kind that came from losing everything you'd built your life around.

"Tell us what happened," Harry said quietly, settling into a crouch that put him at eye level with the dying man.

"Why?" The cultist's voice cracked. "Why would you care about one of Grandfather's forgotten children?"

"Because you're dying alone in ze dark, abandoned by everyzing you believed in," Fleur said softly. "No one deserves zat. Not even someone who served Chaos."

The honesty in her voice seemed to break something in the cultist. Tears (thick with pus and corruption) rolled down his cheeks.

"The burning," he whispered. "Three days ago, we all felt it. Like acid in our souls. The blessed corruption that Grandfather had gifted us with began to... to rebel. To eat us from within instead of preserving us. The connection to the Garden, to the Mansion of Decay, it started screaming."

He paused, gasping for breath that rattled in his fluid-filled lungs.

"We tried to flee. All of us, the entire congregation. Fifty souls who'd served faithfully for decades. But the tunnels... others were fleeing too. Skaven, goblins, even some of Khorne's berserkers. All running from the same thing. From you." His eyes fixed on Harry with desperate intensity. "The tunnel collapsed in the panic. The others left me. Said Grandfather would save me if I was worthy."

"But 'e didn't," Fleur said softly.

"He couldn't. Or wouldn't. I called to him, begged him, offered everything." The cultist's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "And I felt him turn away. Felt him sever our bond like cutting off infected flesh. Forty years of prayers, of spreading his plagues, of converting others to his worship, and he abandoned me in an instant rather than risk your attention."

The silence that followed was profound. Here was confirmation of what they'd suspected: the Chaos gods themselves feared Harry enough to abandon their own followers rather than risk contact.

"Everything I did," the cultist continued, his voice growing weaker, "everyone I killed, every plague I spread in his name... it was all for nothing. The eternal life in the Garden was a lie. The love of Grandfather was a lie. There's just... nothing. Nothing but the rot and the pain and the ending."

Harry moved closer, close enough that the cultist flinched. But instead of attack, Harry simply asked, "Do you want mercy?"

The cultist's eyes widened. "You would... you would grant me that? After what I've done? What I've been?"

"Everyone deserves the choice of how they meet their end," Harry said. "I can make it quick. Painless. A true ending, not the false eternity Nurgle promised."

"A true ending," the cultist repeated, wonder in his voice. "Are you really Death, then? The stories spreading through the dark places, they say Death walks beside you."

"Death is my friend," Harry confirmed. "And yes, Death walks with me. If you want mercy, I can grant it."

The cultist was crying openly now, the tears washing tracks through the filth on his face. "Please. Please, I don't want to die like this, alone and abandoned. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for the darkness I spread, for the people I hurt. I thought I was bringing them Grandfather's love, but it was just... it was just corruption. Just rot without purpose."

Harry reached out, his hand hovering over the cultist's forehead. "What's your name?"

"Wilhelm. Wilhelm Drucker. I was a baker, before. Had a shop on Guilder Street. Made the best black bread in Nuln." A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Seems like another lifetime."

"Rest, Wilhelm," Harry said gently, and touched the man's forehead.

The death was instant and absolute. Not the false death of Chaos that left souls trapped in eternal service, but true cessation. Wilhelm Drucker's eyes closed with an expression of profound peace, and his body began to dissolve. The corruption had claimed so much of him that without it, there was barely anything left to hold together. Within moments, only dust remained, even that beginning to scatter in the faint air currents of the collapsed tunnel.

Harry and Fleur stood in the darkness, their conjured light the only illumination in the tomb-like space. The implications of what they'd witnessed hung between them like a physical presence.

"Ze gods zemselves fear you," Fleur said finally. "Zey would razzer lose their followers zan risk your attention."

"Which makes those followers desperate," Harry replied, his voice heavy. "And desperate people do terrible things."

"Or," Fleur suggested, "it makes zem vulnerable. Open to change. If their gods abandon zem..."

"They might abandon their gods in return." Harry looked at the spot where Wilhelm had died. "He thanked me, Fleur. A Chaos cultist thanked me for killing him because it was more mercy than his god showed."

They made their way back through the tunnels in contemplative silence. The journey up seemed shorter, or perhaps Harry's unconscious magic was subtly folding space to speed their return. By the time they emerged into the pre-dawn air of Nuln, the first hints of sunrise were painting the eastern sky purple.

"We tell no one about zis," Fleur said as they made their way back to the palace. "Not yet."

Harry nodded. The knowledge that Chaos gods would abandon their followers rather than face him was powerful information, but also dangerous. It could spark panic among cultists, driving them to extremes. Or it could be used by the Empire's forces, if they understood how to leverage it.

As they floated back up to their window, Harry noticed a figure watching from a tower window: Elspeth, her pale face visible in the pre-dawn gloom. She raised a hand in acknowledgment, then disappeared back into her chambers. Of course she'd noticed their absence. The death mage seemed to notice everything.

Back in their room, as Fleur helped him out of his corruption-stained clothes, Harry couldn't shake Wilhelm's words. The gods' abandonment made flesh. The ending that ends.

"What am I becoming?" he asked quietly.

Fleur pulled him into an embrace, her warmth a comfort against the chill that had settled in his bones. "You are what you 'ave always been, mon amour. Someone who shows mercy to those who deserve it, and destruction to those who require it. Ze only difference is zat now, even gods understand zis."

As dawn broke properly over Nuln, painting their chambers in golden light, Harry held his wife and wondered what new chaos (lowercase c) the day would bring. The Emperor's delegation would arrive tomorrow. But after tonight, he suspected that was the least of their concerns.