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The handwriting on the note was neat and clear.
So neat that it looked like printed text.
It bore no trace of personal calligraphic style— it absolutely wasn’t something Ian had absentmindedly stuffed into his robes, nor could it be a fragment of runes he had transcribed himself.
While his handwriting wasn’t ugly, it was nowhere near this mechanically precise and devoid of individuality. And given his age, there was no way he could have forgotten transcribing such a segment of runes due to some memory lapse.
“Merlin’s beard! I’ve encountered something foul!” Ian warily picks up the note from the floor. The fact that this thing had seemingly materialized out of thin air in his pocket sent a shiver down his spine.
Who could have slipped this note into his pocket without him noticing?
Staring at the faintly shimmering runes on the parchment, Ian had a strong premonition, this might very well be the exact fragment he had been searching for: the anchoring runes within the Resurrection Stone.
“This is the segment…”
Though Ian had already memorized the runes on the Resurrection Stone, he still pulled out the stone to compare. The runes on the note indeed matched a portion of the stone’s inscriptions, which only made the situation more unnerving. After all, the only living person who knew Ian was studying these runes was Grindelwald.
“Did Aurora’s grandfather already decipher what I needed?” Ian quickly dismissed the thought. He doubted Grindelwald could work that fast.
Besides, the man had no reason to deliver the answer in such a cryptic manner. If Grindelwald had made progress, he’d have summoned Ian to his office, handed over the results, and then demanded half an hour of praise— that was his style.
“Dumbledore doesn’t know I have the Resurrection Stone, and Aberforth is unlikely to be involved either.”
Clutching the note, Ian mentally reviewed everyone he had interacted with that day.
First, he ruled out the students. Most of them could barely cast a Jinx without trembling, let alone decipher the secrets of a Deathly Hallow.
Quirrell, possessed by Voldemort?
Unlikely. If the Dark Lord knew Ian had the Resurrection Stone, and that its soul was gone— why would he have been smiling during their earlier conversation?
Snape?
Even less likely.
Snape’s expertise lay in potions, not alchemy. The man was obsessed with stirring cauldrons— he hadn’t even noticed the peculiarities of the Marauder’s Map back in the day.
“Then there’s that mysterious Alchemy Professor… Arthur King.”
Ian knew the name had some significance, but no one could confirm whether Professor King had chosen it himself during some teenage phase of grandiosity, much like Tom Riddle rebranding himself as Voldemort. In the West, it wasn’t uncommon for people to alter even their surnames for various reasons.
Besides, Professor King had no way of knowing Ian was studying the Resurrection Stone. Their brief encounter in the library hadn’t involved any such revelation. Unless the man could divine the impossible, there was no explanation.
Hogwarts was full of hidden talents, but none so absurdly overpowered.
That wasn’t to say the Alchemy Professor was above suspicion, but Ian couldn’t fathom how he’d know what Ian needed, let alone solve the problem in a single glance.
Most crucially, a near-stranger had no reason to help Ian anonymously.
What was the motive?
Did they find Ian… adorable?
That thought was even more terrifying.
“This is bizarre and absurd…”
After racking his brain to no avail, Ian accepted that the note’s origin remained a mystery. But he was certain that someone was lurking in the shadows.
Was it a scheme? Or genuine assistance?
“Only one way to find out!”
Bold as ever, Ian strode to his workbench and pulled out one of his counterfeit Resurrection Stone prototypes from his pouch.
Even if this experiment ruined all his remaining prototypes, he still had reserves of the peculiar stone from the Twilight Zone.
Alchemy, after all, was about trial and error— as long as the test subjects weren’t himself or his acquaintances.
“You! Assist me. Grind these into powder!” Ian summoned his Dementor assistant and began his verification in the Room of Requirement.
Whether the mysterious note’s runes were accurate or not, testing was the only way to know. The worst outcome would be failure— which is nothing new.
“Next time I enter the Twilight Zone, I’ll test the runes on a small animal first.”
Ian wasn’t taking chances. Not only would he use animals to verify the runes’ effects, but he also decided to transcribe directly from the Resurrection Stone itself— bypassing the note entirely.
This was to avoid any undetectable tampering in the note’s runes.
Caution was the parent of safety.
He kept the note to trace its origins later. If he couldn’t uncover the stealthy culprit, he’d never sleep soundly again.
His current theory?
The note’s deliverer might have been invisible.
An Invisibility Cloak, a Disillusionment Charm— the magical world had countless methods of concealment. If that were the case, his inability to pinpoint a suspect made sense.
None of the day’s potential suspects had gotten close enough— even Quirrell (Voldemort) hadn’t managed to lay a hand on him.
“Then again, there’s that lost spell— ‘Wizard’s Hand’— which conjures an invisible third limb…”
Once his preparations were complete,
Ian, with the Dementor’s assistance began his experiment. The mindless creature mostly fetched materials and occasionally nibbled on snacks.
“Grind this finer.”
Thankfully, Ian’s studies in [Ancient Alchemy] spared him the struggles a modern alchemist would face. His techniques leaned toward ancient magical scripts, aligning closely with the Resurrection Stone’s craftsmanship.
Yes, the runes on the Resurrection Stone could be considered a form of magical text— distinct from Runes or other ancient scripts. They were a unique “alchemical language” belonging to the creator of the Deathly Hallows.
For now, let’s call it “Necro-Script.”
Like Ancient Runes, it was a language imbued with magic, but far more potent. Its essence likely represented a manifestation of the Death God’s power.
Ancient Runes, in contrast, were the wizarding world’s exploration and codification of magic and nature. Both were expressions of power, sharing some underlying principles.
Modern Alchemy, however, was different.
Evolved from contemporary Charms, it only partially retained ancient script traits. Like spells, it was simpler to learn but significantly altered.
“Each has its pros and cons.”
Ian’s assessment was objective.
Artifacts crafted via [Ancient Alchemy] could be called “scripted creations”— their magical circuits woven entirely from interconnected magical texts.
Modern alchemical artifacts, meanwhile, emphasized layering enchantments to achieve specialized functions.
No longer reliant on magical language as a foundation, their structure diverged sharply from [Ancient Alchemy]. It was like two branches of the same discipline, making it difficult for modern alchemists to replicate the Resurrection Stone.
Of course, modern alchemy’s stability and accessibility far surpassed its ancient counterpart, otherwise, it wouldn’t have replaced it.
“Wand shops are stocked thanks to modern alchemy’s efficiency.”
This shift mirrored Muggle industrialization.
In many ways, modern alchemy was more practical. It sacrificed some possibilities of the ancient art to lower barriers to entry and improve success rates.
“Modern alchemy’s advancement is also tied to ancient alchemy’s exorbitant material demands.”
Ian glanced at the costly ingredients on his desk.
Without the Room of Requirement and the Forbidden Forest’s “free resources,” gathering these materials would’ve cost a fortune. And that was with his [Transcendent Alchemy] trait allowing substitutions— otherwise, some materials would’ve been outright unattainable.
Like potion ingredients, alchemical components were vanishing.
If Ian’s knowledge held, the pinnacle of modern alchemy was Nicolas Flamel—a master of both schools who had actively shaped modern alchemy’s development.
This proved that modern alchemy excelled in certain areas.
That said, Ian suspected Flamel had used [Ancient Alchemy] to create the Philosopher’s Stone.
Many feats of the ancient art had no modern equivalents. Modern alchemy relied heavily on established enchantments, making innovation difficult without reverting to ancient methods.
“If I want to study the Philosopher’s Stone, I’ll need ‘No-Nose’s’ help.”
Ian meticulously fused materials into the Resurrection Stone prototype. His rune-carving progress was glacial— each stroke demanded painstaking precision.
Even a small segment would take days.
Slow. And unforgiving of errors.
This was why Ian hadn’t attempted a full replication earlier. Completing the entire stone’s inscriptions would’ve taken months, with no guarantee of success.
Unexpected complications could always arise.
“Blast it! I said grind it by hand, not chew, wait, since when do you have teeth?!”
Ian hadn’t failed.
He’d just noticed his Dementor’s odd behavior and paused his Necro-Script engraving to pry open its mouth.
“Bloody hell! You do have teeth! Where’d those come from?!”
To his astonishment, the Dementor’s newfound molars were perfect for grinding.
Weeks Later, as the sun rose and set, Ian settled into a rigorous routine. Time flew when one was engrossed in work.
In what felt like a blink, weeks had passed.
Occasionally, Ian used Marauder’s Map to monitor Quirrell’s movements, but the man showed no signs of making a move against Grindelwald.
A pity. Ian would’ve loved to witness a clash between the first and second Dark Lords.
“Maybe he’s still searching for the Philosopher’s Stone?”
Quirrell’s post-class wanderings suggested as much.
“I just want that mirror… Though studying the Stone wouldn’t hurt. Wonder if it’s as complex as the Resurrection Stone.”
Aside from classes, Ian spent most of his time on replication. Progress was slower than expected.
Engraving the prototype had taken days, but that was just the beginning. Adjusting the runic connections was an even more delicate task— especially with his limited understanding of Necro-Script.
A single misstep could drastically alter the outcome. Until activation, no one could predict the effects of errors.
During these weeks, Ian had visited the Twilight Zone several times, but couldn’t snap more photos for Dumbledore. Pandero had taken Ariana on a swordsmanship expedition.
This, Ian learned from his mentor, Morgan le Fay.
Despite Pandero and Morgan’s mutual disdain, Ariana had won the legendary dark witch’s affection. Perhaps Morgan cherished the girl’s innocence, something she herself had lost long ago.
(Not that Ian would dare voice that theory to her face.)
Ian had also inquired about the Deathly Hallows, but Morgan seemed unimpressed.
“They once belonged to one wizard. And I could’ve killed him with a thought. So whether they’re the Death God’s creations or not, they mean nothing to me.”
Her words were dripped with disdain.
At her level, true power came from within, not fromartifacts.
Ian agreed.
Even Grindelwald and Dumbledore had reached similar conclusions. The truly powerful never relied on external enhancements.
“Voldemort never grasped that.”
As Morgan had emphasized after their Hallows discussion, “The height of one’s thinking determines the ceiling of their achievements.”
His subsequent visits yielded little excitement.
The legendary witch mostly assessed Ian’s progress and corrected his spellcasting habits.
Unlike Grindelwald— who spoon-fed knowledge— Morgan preferred letting Ian learn independently before refining his understanding.
Two teaching styles. Two masters.
However, the effects were equally tremendous, Ian’s magical proficiency improved significantly.
Compared to Grindelwald, though, Morgan was far more demanding. She never lavished Ian with praise, instead constantly pushing him with remarks like, “Not bad, but still not enough.”
The emotional support was lacking, but Ian didn’t dare complain. While helping Morgan repair her guardians, he sometimes felt like an indentured servant.
“I wonder if the magical inscriptions inside Hogwarts’ statues are similarly structured.”
Seizing the opportunity while Morgan was in a rare good mood after regaining her gatekeeper guardian, Ian attempted to ask her to verify whether the mysterious note’s runes were authentic.
However, the legendary witch’s knowledge of Necro-Script was even shallower than the Grey Lady’s. Perhaps it was because she had never encountered such knowledge in life or death.
Or maybe she knew but simply refused to tell Ian.
This ancient witch was, without a doubt, the most enigmatic figure Ian had ever met.
“Master… are you even capable?” Ian’s attempt at reverse psychology was crude, but Morgan took the bait, just not in the way he expected.
Instead of confirming the note’s runes, she inscribed another set of runes onto the parchment— ones designed to help Ian track down its original sender.
According to Morgan, when the note approached its creator, it would emit a faint glow, regardless of any concealment magic they might have used.
This was a ruthlessly effective method.
Thrilled and fully trusting in Morgan’s abilities, Ian spent the next day running around the school with the note, approaching every possible suspect.
Grindelwald.
Voldemort-Quirrell.
Professor Arthur King.
McGonagall.
Dumbledore.
Flitwick.
Even Sprout and Snape.
Yet, to his utter shock, the note remained inert near every suspect. Ian began suspecting this was just another one of Morgan’s cruel jokes.
“Will you light up or not?!”
Desperate, he even approached Aurora Sinistra and various students, wondering if one of them might be a disguised prodigy or a rejuvenated elder.
Unsurprisingly, this reckless approach only led to misunderstandings— over a dozen girls and one senior thought he was trying to confess.
“That wicked woman ruined me!”
Defeated, Ian retreated to the Room of Requirement. Regardless of whether the mysterious figure was still at Hogwarts, he couldn’t abandon his half-finished replica.
Adjusting the magical circuits between the runes had consumed weeks of his time.
For magic to take effect, the structure formed by these runes was crucial. The process required tens of thousands of adjustments, highlighting why Ancient Alchemy was so inefficient.
But if successful, the result would be something modern alchemy could never replicate— because these runes originated from the Death God itself.
This was also why Ian struggled so much.
Days of intense manual labor left him exhausted, proving that excessive concentration was detrimental to one’s health.
“I’ll need reading glasses at this rate!”
His vision blurred from staring at the Resurrection Stone’s minuscule inscriptions. Each adjustment required cross-referencing the original, a process more torturous than counting grains of sand.
“Isn’t this just… assembly line labor?”
Ian was physically and mentally drained, and his daily classroom demeanor became sluggish.
William suspected he’d gotten into banned potions, while Michael was convinced he was secretly dating someone.
“Who started that rumor?!”
Dark circles framed Ian’s swollen eyes as he chugged restorative potions between bites of steak— a taste only those who’d tried foul-tasting potions could understand.
“You haven’t hosted any evening gatherings lately. The younger students say love’s made you lazy. Even Penelope says only lovestruck people act this lethargic.” Michael’s explanation was delivered with grave seriousness.
William chimed in. “Yeah! I don’t get why dating would make you tired, but our Prefect wouldn’t lie!”
Ian seriously considered introducing them to his Dementor for a romantic encounter.
“Eat up. We’ve got work to do.” He shoved baguettes into their mouths before dragging them outside.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Hogwarts had already begun its holiday— some schools certainly knew how to prioritize breaks.
The joy on the students’ faces was infectious. Holidays truly nourished the soul—even their complexions seemed brighter, as though a bit of magic had worked its way into their skin.
In stark contrast, Ian’s dark circles stood out painfully.
“This snow is relentless.”
December had brought a bitter chill, and days of snowfall had transformed the once-green grounds into a pristine white expanse.
“Prince! Come build a snowman with us!”
Fred and George bounded over, grinning mischievously. Ever since sharing their encounter with the “dirty thing” disguised as Ian, they’d treated him like an old friend— conveniently ignoring how his pale face that night had nearly matched Michael’s.
“Is that… a snowman?” Michael gawked at the twins’ creation in horror.
“I feel mentally violated.” William clutched his head, struggling to find words.
“This is art! You just don’t understand!” One twin declared proudly.
The other nodded with fervor. “This is an ultra-advanced art! Look at these five heads and dozen legs— don’t the lines just sing?”
Their grotesque snowman abomination left William and Michael shivering, and not from the cold.
“Will we end up like this if we keep studying magic?”
They exchanged worried glances.
Unlike his unappreciative roommates, Ian approved wholeheartedly.
“You’re right! This is art! But I bet you nicked the idea!” The twins gasped dramatically.
“He knows we plagiarized! He must’ve seen the Centaur specimen in the Defense Professor’s office!” George clutched his chest.
Fred wailed, “Then we’ll add five more heads! Twenty legs! And twenty eyes per leg!”
“George! If we’re adding legs, why not some… er, extra anatomy?”
Fred, mid-modification, earnestly explained to Ian: “The professor’s specimen was a failed Animagus Centaur— but ours is the ultimate evolution!”
He invited Ian to contribute to their masterpiece.
“…”
Ian now knew where his “art piece” had ended up.
He liked to think of himself as open-minded, but the twins were on an entirely different level.
“Such a grand masterpiece deserves your exclusive touch! We’re unworthy!”
Ian fled, dragging his bewildered roommates behind him.
Compared to the twins’ nightmarish creation, most other snowmen— crafted by younger witches— were far more charming.
Magical creatures were the theme of choice: giant Puffskeins, oversized round-faced Scottish chickens, and even an enormous toad.
“Should we build a dragon?” William’s fascination with Western dragons flared up once more, and Michael’s interest quickly followed.
“Weren’t you two supposed to help me chop trees?” Ian’s reminder snapped them back to the task at hand.
“Don’t worry, Ian. We’d never betray you.”
William physically restrained Michael from sneaking glances at a group of Hufflepuff girls, steering them toward the Forbidden Forest.
This wasn’t just an ordinary chore. It was a point-granting quest from Professor Flitwick— if Ian managed to procure suitable Christmas trees for the Great Hall, Ravenclaw would earn 20 points and receive public praise.
Frankly, Ian didn’t care much about points, Ravenclaw was already so far ahead that even losing the Quidditch Cup wouldn’t make a difference.
“I just love helping professors!”
They passed the Black Lake, where several Hufflepuffs were marveling at fish frozen mid-leap beneath the ice.
“Look! Their heads are sticking out!”
“Merlin, what a sight! Bet this inspired Stargazy Pie!”
“Now I’m craving fish heads.”
Classic Hufflepuffs, always thinking about food.
Nearby, Gryffindors and Slytherins were locked in an all-out snowball war.
“Merlin’s beard, they’re putting rocks in their snowballs?!”
Michael hastily stole William’s self-heating enchanted hat, immediately basking in its warmth as the chaos raged on.
“Gryffindors are the real champions.”
Ian spotted what Michael missed— while Slytherins used rocks, Gryffindors had upgraded to freshly produced dungbomb projectiles.
A battle of physical damage versus psychological trauma.
A few Gryffindors were bleeding, but the Slytherins were routed, fleeing with bloodcurdling screams.
As the chaos escalated, Quirrell— returning from the grounds— walked straight into the crossfire.
The stench made him pale, but he couldn’t turn back— exposing his rear would be suicide.
Instead, he tried sidestepping awkwardly.
Which was too late by now.
The students surged toward him.
“STOP!”
His shrill command went ignored.
To protect his “passenger,” he dropped to the ground abruptly, becoming the primary target.
Head wounds, plus unspeakable enchantments bombarded towards him.
His scalp would regret this day.
“Poor professor.” William mourned for three seconds before he threw a clean snowball at Quirrell’s face.
“My turn.” Ian’s snowball was less charitable— packed with magically frozen slush.
(Whether or not the bacteria within survived wasn’t his concern.)
“Thwack!”
As the battle raged on, Ian dragged his roommates away.
“I didn’t get my turn!” Michael lobbed a giant snowball in regret.
“Bastards! Absolute bastards!” Quirrell’s shrieks echoed behind them.
Quirrell scrambled up from the ground, cursing the two Houses, completely unaware of Ian’s covert attack. He frantically pulled out his wand to clean himself up.
“Splat!”
Michael Jordan— likely not a coincidental name— hurled a snowball from afar with uncanny precision, hitting Quirrell right in a particularly vulnerable spot.
“All Gryffindors deserve to die! Once I return, I’ll purge every last one of them!” Voldemort’s voice finally erupted in Quirrell’s mind, seething with fury and madness.
The Dark Lord’s rage was understandable, after all, he was currently sharing Quirrell’s sensory experiences.
“And Ravenclaws too!” Voldemort hadn’t spotted Ian earlier, but he’d already investigated the boy’s background. His hatred for Ian now extended to the entire House.
“Master… we— we must find a way into that place to retrieve the hidden Philosopher’s Stone…” Quirrell groveled like a bootlicker. His efforts at Hogwarts had yielded some leads, though whether they were genuine or planted remained debatable.
It was unclear. Truly unclear.
The Great Hall’s Christmas Trees
The Christmas trees for the Great Hall were acquired— though Ian and his roommates barely lifted a finger.
They’d run into the ever-helpful Hagrid along the way.
Thus, Hagrid burned calories while Ian and his roommates freeloaded House points.
A win-win situation.
Their only contribution? Gathering some mistletoe.
A winter plant, also called holly, mistleto,e stood out starkly with its green leaves and red berries while other trees stood bare.
A symbol of good fortune, it was traditionally draped over Christmas trees as decorative garlands.
“You’re amazing, Hagrid!”
“Yeah! This professor is incredible!”
“He’s like a majestic giant!”
Ian and his roommates trailed behind Hagrid, showering him with praise while the half-giant effortlessly carried twelve Christmas trees.
His strength was monstrous.
“I’ve always handled this job. Stick with me, and your professors will be impressed.”
Hagrid even took charge of decorating the Great Hall, his rough hands surprisingly deft. Soon, the hall was transformed into a winter wonderland.
The twelve trees were perfectly positioned, adorned with colorful magical lanterns. Ian waved his wand, conjuring countless glittering stars onto the branches.
They shimmered with an otherworldly glow, far surpassing ordinary candles or lamps. Even Hagrid, a man of simple tastes, gaped in awe.
“Your magic’s brilliant! Probably just a tad weaker than Dumbledore at your age.”
High praise indeed— from someone who revered Dumbledore above all else.
“I’ve got a long way to go before matching Dumbledore.”
Ian continued decorating, piling gift boxes beneath the trees— each “inspected” (and pilfered) by “Inspector Prince.”
His pockets now bulged with ill-gotten sweets, fueling his decorating fervor.
Meanwhile,
“These candles are impossible to light! They burn out instantly…” William and Michael practiced their Incendio Charm on the decorative candles.
“Maybe… they’re not meant to be lit with that kind of fire?” Hagrid, softened by their earlier flattery, couldn’t bring himself to scold them.
“We know.” William didn’t even blink.
Michael added solemnly, “Ian said we should practice and create ‘accounting opportunities’ for him.”
It was premeditated fraud.
Hagrid froze as he recognized their scheme— but it felt too trivial to condemn.
After all, they were just some candles and sweets…
Perhaps Ian’s high favorability with Hagrid helped. Or maybe Hagrid didn’t realize the candles were magical ingredients.
Awkwardly scratching his nose, Hagrid changed the subject.
“You all going home for Christmas?”
A perennial holiday dilemma.
“William and I are. Ian’s staying.”
Michael answered for all three, watching Ian hang tiny icicles on the trees.
“Many go home, but plenty stay too.” Hagrid’s tone was gentle, likely assuming Ian—an orphanage kid— had nowhere to go.
But Ian, grossed in his ice sculptures (hidden in every tree) and now scaling the ceiling for impromptu artwork, showed zero melancholy.
He didn’t even hear the conversation.
“Drop by during the holidays! We’ll have fun!” Hagrid shouted upward, worried Ian might fall.
“Sure! After I finish my projects!” Ian replied cheerfully, secretly embedding copper Knuts into the ceiling.
Tomorrow’s feast would feature a Hogwarts Santa showering coins.
Why not gold Galleons?
The atmosphere mattered more than the monetary value!
“Maybe hide one Galleon for a lucky winner?” Hagrid suggested.
“Genius!” Ian promptly hid a single Galleon above his usual seat, earning bewildered looks from his roommates.
“Brilliant Christmas idea!”
Unaware of the favoritism, Hagrid beamed.
“Santa owes us.” Ian leapt down, feather-light from a [Levitation Charm].
“The house-elves can handle the rest.” After weeks cooped up in his “lab,” decorating had been therapeutic.
Bidding Hagrid goodbye, Ian treated himself to a day off.
…
At the Black Lake.
“Why are you just sitting around? Let’s skate!”
Spotting Aurora brooding by the Black Lake, Ian transfigured her shoes into ice skates and dragged her onto the frozen lake.
“What are we doing?”
Only on the ice did Aurora process the situation.
“Living life.” Ian’s cheesy wisdom made her pensive.
A natural athlete, she fumbled at first but soon outskated Ian with effortless grace—a black swan gliding across the lake.
If only she weren’t so blunt.
“Are you giving up? Need me to slow down?” Her “considerate” offer bruised Ian’s ego.
“Just a break.” Ian retreated ashore to enhance his skates with additional runes— because, of course, they were already enchanted.
“Life’s lesson: If you’re losing, ask yourself— am I cheating hard enough?”
His competitive streak demanded bigger advantages.
The day ended in laughter.
…
That night,
“Ian, sure you won’t come home with me? My family’s got tons of magical artifacts.”
William’s invitation mirrored Michael’s earlier pleas— both eager to host their friend.
“Next year! I’ve got a project to finish.”
Ian’s real reason for not going with them?
He couldn’t risk missing Voldemort’s potential demise during the holidays.
If the Dark Lord attacked Grindelwald and got obliterated, Ian would lose his prime soul fuel.
“If it happens, I need to be there.”
He planned to sneakily incinerate Voldemort’s remnant soul.
Whether the Dark Lord consented was irrelevant.
“No objections? Then he agrees.”
Confirming Quirrell’s continued inaction, Ian finally slept— eager for his next Twilight Zone visit.
…
The Twilight Zone
The familiar disorientation faded as Ian awoke in Morgan’s castle— but something felt off.
Morgan wasn’t on her usual throne.
Seizing the chance, Ian plopped onto her chair, relishing its comfort—
Until, a deafening roar shook the castle. The tremors flung him onto the cold floor.
“Did Morgan sense me sitting here and unleash a witch’s wrath?!” Rushing outside, Ian gaped at the sight:
A massive western dragon was cowering before Morgan’s thunderous expression.
(End of Chapter)
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