The silence that followed was painful. Tangible. It clung to the air like static before a storm.
Thane let it linger, let it wrap around the assembled Aurors like a noose waiting to be pulled taut. Meanwhile, the Killing Curse writhed in his hand—no longer seeking to fulfill its singular, lethal purpose, but instead twisting and snapping like a chained beast desperate to escape. It radiated confusion, even horror, as if the magic itself understood it was being denied its nature.
"You know, Fudge," Thane said aloud, his tone unnervingly casual. And yet the sound of his voice still made every wand hand flinch. "Had you hesitated a moment longer—had you not given the order to stand down—I might've assumed you planned to assassinate me."
The minister visibly swallowed, sweat forming along his brow, but his gaze remained locked on the impossible sight: the virulent green lightning coiled gently around Thane's arm, treated more like a docile garden snake than the most feared spell in all of magical history.
"But still," Thane continued, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. "I have to ask. Did you come here today with any plan to kill me? And I cannot stress enough, Minister… think very carefully before you answer."
Fudge blinked, startled to realize the question was directed at him. He raised his eyes to meet Thane's—only to be met by a pair of slitted, emerald eyes that glowed with cold judgment. Ancient. Inhuman.
A bone-deep chill rolled down Fudge's spine like icy fingers wrapping around his ribcage.
"N-no… I-I didn't. I swear it," he stammered, voice cracking as fear overtook pride.
Thane's eyes didn't move, didn't blink.
"So," he said softly, "you expect me to believe that one of your officers took it upon themselves—without your knowledge—to launch an unsanctioned assassination attempt on a foreign dignitary... in full view of witnesses?"
As Thane's hand clenched, the Killing Curse flared violently in protest, contorting as if in agony. The gathered Aurors watched with wide, terrified eyes, witnessing the curse be caged like a spirit bottled in silver flame.
Fudge opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He sputtered, stammered—but no denial came. No answers. Just dead air.
Thane let out a quiet, disappointed sigh. "Very well. Since you cannot offer a satisfying answer… I'll simply question my would-be assassin directly."
A silver radiance flared between Thane's fingers, and the cursed lightning began to warp and reshape. The jagged energy twisted and stretched, solidifying into a lance of crackling silver light. With a smooth twirl, Thane spun the weapon once in his palm and then turned his gaze back to the gathered task force.
"You have one chance to come forward," he said, his tone no longer casual. It was commanding. Inevitable. "If you don't—I'll find you myself."
Before the final word had even finished echoing through the air, a sharp pop rang out. A moment later, a dense plume of green smoke erupted in the middle of the Auror ranks.
Chaos followed.
Coughs and shouts filled the air as the acrid fog swept through the line, burning eyes and throats. Even those airborne on brooms found themselves enveloped, the smoke rising like a living thing. Choking. Blinding.
But Thane did not move.
He simply watched, his slitted eyes narrowed against the swirling green haze, a predator waiting for the tremor in the grass. His posture was calm, almost relaxed, but his gaze was razor-sharp—scanning, processing, calculating.
The smoke curled through the air like a serpent, thick and biting. To most, it would've rendered the battlefield a blur of shadows and noise. But not for Thane. While it dampened his magical senses—its alchemical makeup clearly designed to scramble aura detection—it barely touched his sight. The haze only muted the edges, a slight blur, like a fogged mirror just beginning to clear.
Still, it was enough to impede him.
Thane extended his aura slowly, a fine web of energy stretching through the smoke, probing. As expected, it came back garbled—like trying to listen to a whisper in a crowded room. And yet, amidst the cacophony of fear, panic, and scrambled magic, one presence stood out—not because it was still, but because it was artificially unstable.
That was the giveaway.
In the chaos, most of the Aurors' auras had broken down, erratic and volatile from fear, surprise, and confusion. The natural state of a shaken soul. But there—woven into the crowd—was an aura that twitched with intention. Not raw emotion. Not instinct. A pattern. Disturbed on purpose, calculated to mimic the chaos around it.
It was brilliant. A masterstroke of magical camouflage.
And it would've worked—had it been anyone but Thane watching.
A slow smile curled across Thane's lips, amusement glinting in his eyes. 'Let's see what other tricks you've hidden, little shade.'
With a single, fluid movement, Thane twirled the silver lance in his hand, the weapon now thrumming with anticipation. He turned his shoulder, cocked back his arm—and let the lance fly.
It didn't just cut through the air—it tore it apart. The force of its release split the smoke in a trail of rushing wind, spiraling toward the hidden presence like a spear guided by judgment itself. It screamed toward its target, who immediately abandoned their disguise to defend against the devastating attack.
"There you are."
The thought echoed in Thane's mind with razor-sharp precision as the silver lance soared through the smoke like a guided comet.
Within the swirling haze, the plain-faced man didn't flinch—his expression unreadable, his movements clean and practiced. With a swift, silent flick of his wand, he conjured a shimmering shield of crackling violet energy. A standard defense against magical projectiles—normally more than sufficient.
But the lance didn't slow.
It passed through the barrier as though it were mist, untouched by its wards, ignoring the enchantment altogether.
The assassin's eyes widened slightly—barely a flicker, but Thane caught it. That moment of shock passed just as quickly, replaced by swift calculation.
Instead of turning to counter the lance, the man did something smarter.
With barely a whisper of incantation, he conjured a small fireball at the tip of his wand—then immediately detonated it.
The explosion sent him rocketing sideways in a controlled blast of flame and pressure, a last-second evasion that barely cleared him from the lance's trajectory.
The silver projectile struck the stone runway a heartbeat later and exploded in a blinding flash, carving a crater into the pavement with a thunderous bang. Sparks and dust flew skyward as magical energy warped the air, scalding the stone into molten glass at the point of impact.
But the assassin was gone from the blast zone.
Rolling to his feet with unnatural agility, he sprinted away—his body blurring as his legs pumped faster than any normal human should be capable of. He didn't even look back at Thane, the assassins' sole focus was escaping with his life.
Unfortunately for the fleeing man, Thane had no intention of allowing him to reach whatever exit point he had prepared.
With a flick of Thane's wrist and a deep tremor of ancient magic, the very earth responded to his will. The ground quaked, groaning as jagged slabs of stone rose and interlocked in a seamless barrier. A wall surged up ahead of the assassin, impossibly smooth and solid, stretching in both directions for hundreds of feet.
But the assassin didn't slow.
In one fluid motion, he reached into his robes and retrieved a flask—glass, rounded, sloshing with a thick, dark green liquid. He hurled it forward with all his strength, and it shattered against the stone wall with a sharp crack. Instantly, a cloud of acidic steam erupted, hissing and eating away at the rock like boiling venom. The acid punched a tunnel through the barrier in seconds, revealing a narrow path to freedom.
Just as he lunged toward it—
The wall came alive.
With a pulse of silver light, roots burst from the stone itself—luminescent, serpentine tendrils of magic and bark that slithered into the breach. They wove together with impossible speed, sealing the gap as if it had never existed. The newly healed wall gleamed faintly with Thane's magic, daring the assassin to try again.
The man skidded to a halt, boots digging into the gravel. For the first time, frustration flickered across his otherwise impenetrable mask.
He spun sharply, drawing his wand—but he froze.
Thane stood there.
Only a few feet away.
Silent, unmoving, his cloak stirring lightly in the breeze. His eyes glowed with soft green and silver light—serpentine, intelligent, inhuman. In his right hand, a massive wooden staff pulsed with an ancient rhythm, vines coiling lazily around its shaft like living sentinels.
When Thane spoke, his voice was calm—but laced with the unspoken weight of power.
"I'll only ask you this once... Who sent you?"