Interesting.
Grindelwald, blending seamlessly into the crowd of wizards, let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a faint smirk. His sharp eyes flickered with intrigue as he absorbed the grand welcome ceremony unfolding before him. Yet, beneath the spectacle, a nagging sensation clawed at the edges of his consciousness.
Someone was watching him.
Ordinarily, being spied upon was nothing worth mentioning. It was expected, even trivial. But what caught Grindelwald off guard was the fact that, despite his immense power, he couldn't pinpoint the observer's location. That was unusual.
His gaze darkened slightly as thoughts flashed through his mind. Then, with barely a twitch of his fingers, the pupil of his right eye began to glow with a faint silver light.
His wizard talent activated.
The power of fate silently expanded, spreading like an invisible tide, searching—feeling—for traces, frequencies, connections.
Seconds passed, stretching into moments, and Grindelwald's intrigue slowly gave way to a solemn realization.
The King of Goblins.
Though he still couldn't locate the exact source of the spying, the deeper he probed, the more evident it became—only one entity in the world could monitor him like this, someone hidden in the depths. It wasn't Lockhart; if Lockhart wanted to spy on him, he would have done so openly, face to face. No, there was only one possibility.
The King of Goblins.
Slippery little creature.
Grindelwald mused inwardly, his expression unreadable.
He had heard murmurs of this elusive figure even while confined in Nurmengard. Reports from his devoted Saints spoke of a goblin, an unparalleled master of alchemy and magic, rising to prominence in the shadows. But what piqued his curiosity the most was the goblin's ability to unite scattered goblin factions across Germany, France, and beyond.
The Saints had prepared to strike.
Yet, the moment their preparations reached a critical stage, the goblin vanished. No traces, no ripples, no clues.
The Saints did not pursue further, and neither had Grindelwald. Fate did not pull him towards the matter, and in the grand scheme of things, the goblin's existence had little impact—until now.
Who would have thought the goblin had set foot in the United States, carving out an even greater empire?
The American Wizards Bank Association.
Grindelwald had to admit—it was a brilliant move. The goblin had embedded himself so deeply into the infrastructure of the American wizarding world that his influence had reached terrifying levels. He was no mere goblin.
He was a king.
Grindelwald did not regret letting the goblin slip away back then, but he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer audacity and cunning of his unseen rival. It was almost amusing.
Even goblins are producing such extraordinary figures these days.
On the wizarding side, Lockhart had emerged, along with his gifted students. Wanda, especially, had already unlocked her talent, proving to be a force in her own right. The wizarding world was no longer stagnant. New powers were rising, forces shifting, pieces moving on the board.
A golden age was approaching.
The only downside was that he was growing old. But time was still on his side. He could live for many more years. He had more magic to study, more knowledge to uncover.
For now, however, he had more immediate concerns.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he acknowledged the truth—he couldn't locate the spy. That fact alone made his chest tighten in silent frustration. After another brief search, he finally let out a soft exhale and waved his sleeve dismissively.
Whoosh.
In an instant, his figure vanished.
No point in playing a spectacle for a goblin.
The squib wizard standing beside him blinked in confusion, as though momentarily aware of a presence vanishing beside him. Yet, as if a subtle spell had brushed against his mind, the thought faded, and he returned to waving his red flag, caught up in the excitement of welcoming Dumbledore.
Ilvermorny, Charms Laboratory.
The vast chamber was filled with an eerie quiet.
In the center of the research room, ten wizards stood in a solemn formation, each clad in gray wizard robes. Emblazoned on their chests was a pale golden emblem—an intricate symbol composed of a triangle, a sphere, and a wooden stick.
The mark of the Saints.
At the forefront, a wizard named Finos took a step forward. His sharp gaze swept across the gathered followers before he spoke in a steady, commanding tone.
"While I have no doubt in our abilities, I must emphasize the importance of our task."
His voice turned sharper as he continued, "The leader has summoned us for a singular purpose—to uncover the traces of those who hide in the shadows. To break through the veils that obscure our vision."
"To remove obstacles that stand in the way of our great cause—the unification of the wizarding world."
The moment those words fell, an electrified silence spread across the room. Then, with renewed determination, the assembled Saints met each other's gazes, silently vowing to fulfill their mission at all costs.
They had been chosen.
Their loyalty to the Saints, to the leader, was absolute.
For the greater good.
A soft rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Without warning, Grindelwald appeared before them, draped in a pristine white wizard robe. His presence alone commanded immediate reverence.
"I require your assistance," he stated smoothly. "There is a spell I wish to complete—one that will demand all of our efforts."
At his words, the Saints, who only moments ago had been brimming with a cold, unwavering resolve, transformed into eager devotees, nodding fervently, their voices overlapping in reassurances.
"Leader, just tell us what you need!"
"We will spare no effort!"
"You can count on us!"
Finos, watching this sudden outburst, inwardly cursed. Show-offs.
But he quickly straightened himself, adding his voice to the chorus of devotion. It was best not to be seen as hesitant in moments like these. Even the slightest misstep could lead to isolation, or worse—exclusion.
Grindelwald, of course, saw through their thoughts. But he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his hand, casting a silent spell.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Blue flames erupted from the ground, flickering like liquid fire. The flames spiraled upward, forming a perfect circle around the gathered wizards. Then, with a mere press of his foot, Grindelwald sent the flames weaving outward in strange, intricate patterns.
The Saints tensed.
They recognized this magic. Fiendfyre.
Ordinarily, Fiendfyre was an uncontrollable force, a deadly manifestation of raw, malevolent energy. But this—this was different. This fire moved with precise intent, bending to Grindelwald's will.
Then, the final piece.
A deep violet wand appeared in Grindelwald's grip, sweeping through the air as he etched complex runes into existence. His right eye gleamed with silver-white light as he channeled the accumulated power of fate into the spell.
The blue flames flickered—then changed.
From blue to silver-white.
Unlike ordinary fire, this new flame carried no heat. Instead, it emanated an unsettling chill, an eerie stillness that sent a ripple of unease through the assembled wizards.
Grindelwald spoke at last.
"Now, listen."
His voice rang clear as he called forth the name.
"Turan, King of Goblins."
At that moment, the flames surged. Within the swirling silver fire, a visage emerged—a goblin, crowned in black and gold, clad in dark wizard robes, gripping a gleaming metal scepter.
...
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