The sun was beginning to rise again tired, pale, and dulled by the haze of destruction. Smoke hung in the air, and though the battlefield lay empty, the air itself thrummed with the restless energy of preparation.
Wardmasters, runecarvers, and illusionists formed tight clusters around the pyramid, their robes muddied and their faces drawn from days without proper sleep. The ground was still scorched in places from Thor's cataclysmic detonation. Yet now, over this scarred land, something unprecedented was being built.
In the heart of the activity, Morpheus knelt beside a wide sheet of parchment weighed down with conjured stones. He moved his fingers swiftly, sketching a sweeping ring of runes, a layering of ward signatures, and faint outlines of ghostly troops that would be projected across the battlefield. Around him stood Tenzin, Herpo, Albus, Nicholas Flamel, and nearly a dozen other magical minds of prominence. All watched the outline grow.
"We're drawing a mass array of illusions across the entire outer perimeter of the battlefield," Morpheus said, his voice low but firm. "From the base of the pyramid to the furthest line where the shield wall once stood. We're going to make it appear that our forces never broke."
A skeptical murmur moved through the circle.
"I've used illusion magic all my life," he admitted, gesturing at his eyes still faintly glowing from his post-divination clarity. "But never on this scale. We need to fool the 'gods'" his tone was mocking in every sense of the word, "into thinking our army is still here. Alive. Strong. Ready."
He stood, dusting off his hands. "Every ward and rune must be precise. No deviations. If a soldier's boot sinks an inch too far into phantom mud or if a tent flap flickers unnaturally, they will notice. And we only have one chance."
The wardmasters dispersed, some muttering calculations to themselves, others dragging conjured chalk, sticks, and enchanted iron across the dirt to begin their work. Teams split up and began testing.
At one circle near the northern slope of the battlefield, a group of runecarvers struggled with flickering spectral infantry projections. Each time a mock soldier was conjured, it twitched or repeated its motion like a broken puppet.
"Bloody hell!" barked a squat man with grizzled sideburns. He kicked a wardstone, sending it skittering. "I've tuned the time delay five times, and it still stutters like it's caught in a bloody loop."
"Easy, Renfield," said the illusionist beside him. "Maybe it's your weave lines. They're too close to the anchor runes."
Renfield grunted. "They're supposed to be close. It's a feedback issue."
Scowling, he turned away and stormed toward the main camp, eventually reaching Morpheus.
"I need your eyes on something," Renfield said gruffly. "Our loop anchors are jittering. If we can't get them to maintain form, the whole northern line's going to look like a damn puppet show."
Morpheus stood from where he'd been guiding two younger mages and followed Renfield to the test site. He squinted, then raised his hands and whispered. A glow enveloped the problematic illusions, and the glitches began to slow, smooth, and then align.
"Feedback resonance from the ruined leyline," Morpheus said. "You're stabilizing your anchors to the battlefield's damage. Stop that. Build a counterpoint delay and let the ward float a few inches off the natural flow. Trick it into thinking the ground's undamaged."
Renfield blinked, then huffed. "Well, hell. That might just work." He turned back with a grunt, already shouting for his team.
One illusionist, a pale woman named Iskra with silver filigree tattoos spiraling across her face, stood in the middle of a skeletal conjured battlefield. "The movement's wrong," she muttered, waving her wand. A spectral horse reared and galloped in place but its hooves clipped through the earth and its mane moved with no wind. "Sloppy. This won't fool an eagle, let alone a god."
Next to her, a grizzled wardmaster named Callahan growled, "My arrays are fine, but the magical bleed in the atmosphere is messing with our work."
"Try going with the flow, let it enhance us instead of fight us."
"Bloody brilliant!"
Near the outer ring, Tenzin knelt with Herpo and Albus, examining a patch of illusion meant to simulate a battalion of sharp shooters. "The shadows are wrong," Herpo murmured. "They're reacting as if it's midday. But the battlefield will be lit by torchlight when the gods arrive."
Tenzin snapped his fingers. "We need a light-echo overlay. Layer it over the standard glamours and use time-stamped projections from memory to match the natural rhythm."
Albus nodded. "I'll get a team on lighting control. We'll anchor the glow to the torches themselves make the shadows dance properly."
***
Morpheus and Nicholas Flamel stood on either side of a large, stone table strewn with scrolls, alchemical instruments, and arcane diagrams. Between them lay the anchor a crystalline structure pulsating with a steady, golden light.
Morpheus ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. "Transferring the anchor's power through a Vanishing Cabinet… It's never been attempted. The magic involved is… volatile."
Nicholas nodded, his fingers tracing the edge of a parchment. "The Vanishing Cabinets are designed to transport objects, not energies of this magnitude. We'll need to modify the enchantments to handle the anchor's essence."
He unrolled a scroll, revealing a complex diagram of interlocking runes and sigils. "If we adjust the synchronization runes here and reinforce the spatial stabilizers, we might be able to channel the energy safely."
Morpheus studied the diagram, then pointed to a section near the base. "We'll also need to account for the anchor's feedback loop. If the energy isn't properly grounded during the transfer, it could cause a catastrophic backlash."
Nicholas sighed, rubbing his temples. "And even if we manage the transfer, there's no guarantee the receiving anchor will be able to contain the energy. It's already damaged."
Morpheus looked up, determination in his eyes. "That's why we need to reinforce it. The pyramid's residual magic should help stabilize the process. But we'll need to act quickly. Time is not on our side."
They worked in tandem, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance. Nicholas adjusted the runes on the Vanishing Cabinet, his wand emitting sparks of blue light as he modified the enchantments. Morpheus focused on the anchor, weaving protective spells around it to contain its energy during the transfer.
Hours passed, the chamber echoing with the hum of magic and the scribbling of quills. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, and the air grew thick with anticipation.
Finally, Nicholas stepped back, his face pale but resolute. "The modifications are complete. Are you ready?"