The chamber sat in stillness a place between realms, not of earth nor any single heaven or hell, but something else entirely. Colossal stone columns, veined with threads of glowing essence, stretched into a blackness that seemed infinite. The gods gathered there were not bound by time, nor did they cast shadows. A great bronze scrying bowl lay at the center, carved with glyphs from countless pantheons, its swirling surface filled with the aftermath of Thor's sacrifice.
The image was apocalyptic charred earth, a shattered pyramid, and the broken remnants of both mortal and immortal armies. The anchor still pulsed faintly at the heart of it all, weakened but not destroyed. Above it, storm clouds began to clear, revealing the devastation in full.
Odin stood in silence, his one eye burning not with sorrow, but fury. The other gods ringed the bowl, each reacting in their own way. Zeus leaned on a crackling staff of white-hot lightning, his jaw clenched. Athena watched with cold calculation. Michael stood off to the side, wings unfurled, his eyes never strayed from the bowl, his face unreadable. And across from them, three demons lounged like predators, eyes gleaming with mirthless interest.
"They died for nothing," Zeus growled, slamming his fist against the edge of the scrying bowl. "Thor and Loki. Spent like coin. And the anchor still stands."
"They weakened it," Odin replied, voice like a distant avalanche. "That matters."
"At what cost?" Athena's voice cut like a spear. "Your sons are gone, and the veil thinned only slightly. The defenders still live. The mortals rallied. Even that accursed specter Khufu held the pyramid long enough to deny us victory."
Michael spoke next, low but commanding. "And yet we act as if one more assault would not see another slaughter. What you propose, Odin, is folly."
"I propose purpose," Odin barked, stepping forward. "They died for this. We cannot allow their sacrifice to go unanswered. You saw it yourselves. The defenses are strained. Khufu is gone. Ra and Anubis are wounded. If we strike now, with full force, we can finish what we began."
One of the demons snorted, a sound like hot coals shifting. "Convenient, All-Father. A little too convenient, perhaps. Would you feed us all into the same furnace your sons burned in?"
"Thor chose that fate," Odin growled. "And Loki knew the stakes."
"Did he?" Athena snapped. "Or did you use him like a pawn? Just as you now propose to use the rest of us?"
The scrying bowl rippled again, showing Morpheus rallying the survivors, commanding the battlefield like a general of old. His voice rang faintly through the veil, distorted by the magic, but it carried weight even here. As he stood atop his conjured podium, eyes to the sky, Odin's face hardened.
"Enough waiting," he muttered. "The mortals have a foothold now. Morpheus leads them. He leads them."
Another demon laughed softly. "You fear him. You fear what he is becoming."
"I fear what we will lose if we hesitate," Odin snapped. "We have already paid too high a price to falter now."
Zeus crossed his arms, nostrils flaring. "And what do you suggest? Another wave? We are depleted. Our forces scattered. The Valkyries hesitate now, demoralized. Our soldiers are questioning our tactics! Even the lower demons are beginning to distrust our leadership."
"I suggest we gather what we have left and strike with everything," Odin answered. "No more skirmishes. No more strategies. A siege. We raze the pyramid to the ground. Destroy the anchor and break the veil once and for all."
Silence followed.
Michael's wings folded behind his back. "And if we fail again?"
"We won't," Odin said. "Not if we act now."
Athena narrowed her eyes. "I'm not so certain you care whether we succeed or fail
only that they suffer."
A moment of tension rippled through the chamber like a drawn bow.
Odin's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned to the bowl again, watching as the image flickered—showing the disarray of demons and angels, the still-burning battlefield, the smoldering remains of Thor's final stand.
"We strike again," he said coldly. "Soon."
The scrying bowl's glow dimmed, but the chamber was alight now with whispering voices, raised tempers, and the slow, bitter fracture of a pantheon that once moved as one.
***
Smoke still curled over the cratered earth, and the air stank of ozone, ash, and blood. The sun had begun to rise, dull and red behind the veil of dust that lingered like a shroud over the battlefield. Charred armor glinted beside shattered bones. Craters pockmarked the sand like fresh wounds.
But the survivors moved with grim determination.
The humans had not broken.
Aurors from multiple nations, ragged and dirt-covered, were already at work near the fractured base of the pyramid. Some were guiding centaur healers as they carried stretchers loaded with the barely breathing. Others transfigured rubble into crude barriers while goblins used their innate stonecraft to reforge cracked sections of the pyramid's outer plating.
"Move those stones into the second ring!" barked a French auror. "We'll set the perimeter wards once they're in place!"
Several witches and wizards levitated slabs of granite into the air, sweat pouring from their brows, their wands moving in synchronized precision. Sparks flew as new glyphs were etched into the surface—defensive arrays, anti-scrying charms, and quick-erected wardstones. Makeshift towers had begun to rise around the pyramid's base, surrounded by a latticework of magical beams and illusion shrouds.
"We need another field medic here!" someone shouted. "He's not breathing!"
A British healer scrambled forward, flanked by a Japanese war-mage holding a shimmering orb pulsing with healing light. Two American aurors used conjured wind spells to keep the dust clouds at bay while a team of South African enchanters reactivated the buried ley lines Khufu had once woven into the sand.
It was a chorus of coordination born from desperation.
The anchor at the pyramid's center pulsed with faint light—still functional, though scorched and cracked. Its magical signature was weaker than before, but it remained tethered, and that was enough to keep the veil from collapsing entirely.
A team of goblin engineers examined the pyramid's exposed heart with silent reverence.
"No more magic can touch this core," one of them growled in his native tongue. "We need runes. Deep ones. Old ones."
Morpheus and Herpo stood next to them while they examined the anchor. He wasn't in a position to tell them no, they troops would turn on him and his brother once again, demanding they share everything.
"Then carve them," a nearby centaur commander said. "We'll protect you."
Morpheus and Herpo moved to a spire that was transfigured as an outpost during the battle. They walked in a calm silence.
"I see two paths in front of us brother." Morpheus spoke softly as he gazed at the spot where Khufu held the lime
"Yes." Herpo agreed, "We can either have thousands defend this position to their last breath, knowing they will retaliate soon with the defenses down and crush the anchor, or.."
"We can sacrifice the Anchor to win the war." Morpheus finished for him
Herpo nodded, "It would come down to predicting the next Anchor they choose to attack."
"It will be the one in England," Morpheus replied
"Why not Asia?"
"Because even though it was damaged in the process of moving it the one in England is far stronger, if they destroy that, the war will he over."
"But if they destroy the pyramid, our chances of victory go down dramatically."
Morpheus gazed at the horizon with a faraway look, "Negary, fetch Nicolas." his gaze then slid to Herpo, "I will win, brother hear me now, I do not care what I have to do but I will win."
Then they saw movement at the western ridge.
Wands rose. Bows drew tight.
But what emerged from the horizon was no enemy.
They came in ranks flags of different magical nations fluttering in the wind. Wizards in pristine robes, battle-worn but unified. Representatives of the International Confederation of Wizards. And behind them: war druids from Scandinavia, elemental summoners from Southeast Asia, stormcallers from the Pacific Islands. Magical communities from across the globe had come.
"Even if I have to become a monster remember that Brother, don't try to stop me."
At the head of the procession was a man in deep green robes, his silver beard untouched by the dust. Albus Dumbledore walked with quiet solemnity, his blue eyes sharp despite the sorrow etched into them.
Beside him strode Tenzin, his staff radiating with grounded spiritual power, every step steady and firm. Behind them followed more leaders some known, others cloaked in their culture's secrecy but each carried the same expression.
Determination. Unity. Grief.
The crowd of working wizards parted slowly as the leaders approached. Morpheus turned his head from the tower to watch them. For a long moment, no one spoke.