The tent was packed.
Wardmasters lined the perimeter, stern witches and wizards with ink-stained hands and scarred fingertips, veterans of magical defense. Runemasters leaned over the long table, murmuring in low, anxious tones. Illusionists sat apart, more withdrawn, as if the very idea of war clashed with their craft. Tenzin stood near the rear, arms folded. Herpo paced like a serpent wound too tight. Dumbledore and two others from the ICW Council stood near the fire, waiting.
The tension in the air was sharp enough to taste.
Then the tent flap open and Nicolas Flamel entered.
He looked older than legend made him seem worn robes, sunken eyes, but his presence was immediate. A hush rippled through the gathering for many it was their first time seeing the legendary figure.
Morpheus rose from where he'd been seated at the center of the room.
"I'm in need of your mind once again, old friend," Morpheus said.
Flamel smiled faintly. "When you summon me to a battlefield, I can only assume you're planning something… ill-advised."
"We're trying something truly audacious," Morpheus replied. "And I'm not sure we can pull it off."
Flamel raised an eyebrow. "Then I'm intrigued. What do you need?"
Morpheus motioned to the war table. On it lay a detailed model of the pyramid its half-destroyed structure, the fading protective wards, and beside it, a crude construct of another, smaller anchor. The model's second anchor was cracked, chipped, unstable but present.
"We're not going to protect this anchor," Morpheus said quietly. "We're going to move its strength."
There was a beat of silence.
"You mean transfer it?" one of the rune scholars asked.
Morpheus nodded. "Yes. Shift the might, the essence whatever you wish to call it from this anchor to another. One we control. One we can protect."
"That can't be possible, the magic inside is too strong," someone muttered.
"No," Herpo said, stepping forward. "It's improbable. But possible. If the target anchor is close enough."
Morpheus turned to him. "Which is why we'll bring the other anchor here eh sorta."
Tenzin frowned. "How? Portkeys are out. No Floo that could handle that kind of strain."
"That's why," Morpheus said, turning, "we're going to use a Vanishing Cabinet."
At that moment, a chill swept the tent as the flap opened again.
Cassiopeia Black stepped through, regal and silent, eyes glittering like starlight. Behind her floated a tall, ancient Vanishing Cabinet its surface inked with protective glyphs and darkened from use.
"I placed the other one exactly where you asked," she said, voice cool.
"Do you think," Morpheus said, turning back to Flamel, "we can use the Vanishing Cabinets to channel the magic from one anchor to another?"
Flamel approached the model, fingers brushing the runes etched into its surface.
"It's possible," he murmured. "Difficult. Dangerous. But possible. I remember… you moved an anchor once before, didn't you?"
Morpheus nodded. "Yes. It was damaged in the moving process."
Flamel looked up. "And that's the one you're transferring the power to?"
"It is," Morpheus said. "Since it's already damaged, the raw magic from this anchor and the pyramid should begin to repair it. If the transfer is successful, we'll have a reawakened, stronger anchor in a protected location."
"We'll lose power in the transfer," Flamel warned. "Some will bleed into the void. The Veil will thin."
"But not shatter," Morpheus finished. "Not like if this anchor is destroyed."
Flamel stepped back. The tent was utterly silent now.
"Then we'll need a containment circle on both sides," he said slowly. "Stabilization wards to keep the link intact. You'll need every skilled warder and rune carver you can find."
"And we have them," Morpheus said. "But we don't have time, they are needed for something else. The gods will attack again soon. If this fails—"
"Then the Veil tears," Herpo said flatly. "And everything falls."
Nicolas scowled, "which is why we need all of the help we can get, you have the warders here use them! Your distrust of others will make this process slower than it has to be."
Morpheus shook his head, "You are wrong, they are truly needed for something else. We are on a time crunch here. Begin your study of the cabinet I need to speak to the ward masters and rune crafters."
Morpheus looked around at the gathered minds—men and women who had studied magic their entire lives. "So. Are you ready to gamble everything?"
No one spoke.
Then Tenzin stepped forward, rolled up his sleeves, and said: "Let's begin drawing the circles, what is the plan?"
Morpheus unrolled a thick parchment and pinned it to the warboard behind him. With a flick of his wand, a glowing model of the pyramid appeared, ringed by faint lines like concentric ripples of magical energy.
"This," he said, his voice calm but resolute, "is our battlefield. And this—" he gestured to the outer line, well beyond the exposed anchor and shattered wards, "—is the illusion we must create."
He pointed to the void between the pyramid and the defensive front. "From here… to the shield line. That's our canvas."
The wardmasters exchanged uneasy glances.
"We are going to draw a mass array of wards and runes," Morpheus continued, "around the entire pyramid, around the battlefield, and all the way to where the gods last saw our shield line."
He turned back to them. "The purpose is simple deception. We will craft the illusion that the full strength of our army is still here. That our soldiers are still waiting. Still armed. Still dangerous."
A low murmur of disbelief rippled through the tent.
"I'm proficient in illusion magic," Morpheus said plainly. "But I have never attempted anything of this scale before. None of us have. That's why I need you. All of you."
He raised his hand, and the glowing model morphed ghostly figures now filled the space around the pyramid. Marching battalions. Towering constructs. Snipers on invisible perches. Even the ambient shimmer of protective wards hummed along the outer line.
"This illusion must not simply look real—it must feel real. They are creatures of magic, they will sense the seams in our work if we are careless. Every shimmer of light, every sound of footfall, every gust of displaced air it must all exist."
He turned, picking up a thick piece of charcoal, and began to draw on the parchment. Layers of glyphs. Spiral-binding runes. Woven matrices of ward-illusion hybrids.
"We will divide the field into sections. Each team will be responsible for a segment. The wards must be synchronized. The runes must pulse in harmony. And the illusions must seamlessly overlap."
A few illusionists leaned in to examine the sketch. One raised a trembling hand. "This… this is beyond what we've ever done."
"Yes," Morpheus said without hesitation. "It is. But this is not about outlasting them in strength. It's about buying time. If they believe our full force is still present, they'll hesitate. They'll reposition. They may even break their formation."
He looked around the room again.
"If we can fool the gods for even a day, we win the time we need to finish the transfer. To save what remains of the world."
He stepped down from the crate, and his final words rang clearly through the tent.
"So make every glyph perfect. Make every illusion breathe. Make them believe they're facing an army so strong, so prepared, they wouldn't dare strike. And when they do they shall walk into their own demise."
He looked to Tenzin. Then to Flamel. Then to the crowd.
"Let's begin."