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Harry adjusted his grip on the Lordsworn Greatsword, watching Millicent from across the Great Archive. She sat hunched against one of the floating bookshelves, her remaining arm wrapped around her knees, staring at the spot where Aurelia had transformed into that grotesque tree. The twisted bark and preserved face were gone now—Gowry had used some sort of magic to clear it away—but Millicent's golden eye remained fixed on the empty space as if she could still see her sister's final moments.
She looks about as cheerful as I felt after Aunt Marge called my dad a drunk, Harry thought, setting his sword aside and walking over. The ancient tomes floating overhead cast shifting shadows across Millicent's red hair, making her look even more fragile than usual. It was strange how someone who'd been literally born from a plague could seem so delicate.
"You alright?" Harry asked, settling down beside her on the cold stone floor. It wasn't the most brilliant conversation starter, but then again, what exactly did you say to someone whose sister had just tried to murder them all before turning into a tree?
Millicent glanced at him, her golden eye reflecting the Archive's ethereal light. "I should be relieved," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Aurelia tried to kill us. She called the Rot a blessing and wanted to spread it further. By all rights, I should be glad she's gone."
"But you're not," Harry said. It wasn't a question.
"No." Millicent's voice cracked slightly. "She was my sister, Harry. The only family I've ever known, even if we were born from the same... bloom." She said the last word like it tasted bitter. "I don't understand it. How could she see this curse as something beautiful? How could she want others to suffer as we have?"
Harry thought about Dudley—how his cousin had made his life miserable for years, calling him a freak and encouraging his friends to beat him up. Even after all that, Harry had never actually wanted Dudley to die. Family was complicated like that, even when they were rubbish.
"Maybe she was just scared," Harry offered, picking at a loose thread on his torn robes. "Sometimes people convince themselves that bad things are actually good because it's easier than admitting they're trapped."
Millicent turned to look at him properly, her expression curious. "You sound like you know something about that."
Harry let out a short laugh that held no humor. "Yeah, well, I've had plenty of practice with rubbish family situations." He'd never talked about the Dursleys with anyone except Ron and Hermione, but something about Millicent's quiet sadness made the words spill out. "My aunt and uncle raised me after my parents died. They hated magic, hated me for having it. Spent years telling me I was a freak, that my parents were drunks who died in a car crash."
"That's terrible," Millicent said softly, despite not knowing what a car was.
"The worst part was, for years I believed them," Harry continued, surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. "I thought there really was something wrong with me. That I deserved to live in a cupboard under the stairs, to go hungry when Dudley—that's my cousin—got seconds and thirds at dinner. It was easier than hoping things might be different."
Millicent's remaining hand found his arm, her touch gentle despite the Rot marks that traced across her skin like crimson veins. "But you learned the truth eventually."
"When I was eleven. Found out my parents were actually brave, that they died protecting me from a dark wizard." Harry managed a small smile. "Best day of my life, learning I wasn't alone. That there were people who cared about me."
"Like your friends Ron and Hermione?"
The smile faded from Harry's face as worry crashed over him like a cold wave. "Yeah. And Sirius—he's my godfather. Except right now they're all back in my world and I don't even know if they're okay." His hands clenched into fists. "The last thing I remember was casting a Patronus to drive off these soul-sucking things called Dementors. They were about to kill Sirius and Ron, and then... then I woke up here."
"You must miss them terribly," Millicent said.
"Every bloody day," Harry admitted. "Ron's probably doing something stupidly heroic right now, and Hermione's likely reading seventeen books trying to figure out where I went. And Sirius..." He swallowed hard. "He just escaped from wizard prison after twelve years for a crime he didn't commit. He needs me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the floating books rustling softly around them like paper birds. Harry found himself studying Millicent's profile—the way her red hair caught the magical light, how her golden eye seemed to hold depths of sadness that no one her age should carry.
"At least you have people who love you," Millicent said eventually. "Aurelia and I... we were born from Mother's bloom during her battle with General Radahn. Not really daughters in any normal sense. Mother probably doesn't even know we exist."
"Princess Malenia, you mean?" Harry asked.
"Yes. The Lady of Rot, some call her." Millicent's voice held a mixture of pride and pain. "She's incredibly powerful, beautiful despite the Rot's marks. But she's also... distant. Unreachable. Like a star you can see but never touch."
Harry thought about his own parents—James and Lily Potter, who he'd never really known but who'd died for him. At least he had memories of them from other people, stories about their courage and love. Millicent didn't even have that.
"You know what's mad?" Harry said, trying to lighten the mood. "I've been in this world less than two weeks, and I've already got better friends here than I had with the Dursleys for thirteen years."
That earned him a small smile from Millicent. "Better friends? Am I included in that assessment?"
"'Course you are," Harry said, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. "You and Roddard both. Even if he does keep calling me 'boy' like I'm some sort of stray dog."
"He means well," Millicent said with a soft laugh. "Cleanrot Knights aren't exactly known for their social graces. But he cares about you, even if he'd rather die than admit it."
"Yeah, I've noticed." Harry glanced over at where Roddard stood guard near the Archive's entrance, his armored form as still as a statue. "He reminds me a bit of Professor Snape, well a much better man, Snape tried to save me in my first year, but since then, he has been the worst, Roddard tried to kill me once, but only because he thought I was a danger to you."
"You speak of your world with such detail," Millicent observed. "Do you really think you'll make it back?"
The question hit Harry like a punch to the stomach. It was the fear he tried not to think about, the possibility that haunted his dreams. What if he was stuck here forever? What if he never saw Hogwarts again, never flew another Quidditch match, never sat by the fire in Gryffindor Tower with Ron and Hermione?
"I have to," he said simply. "Ranni said she knows how I got here and how I can get back. I just need to defeat this Godrick bloke first, then climb some tower."
"The Divine Tower of Limgrave," Millicent nodded. "That's quite a journey from here."
"Yeah, well, first things first. We need to get you that needle so you can be properly cured. Then we can worry about my problems."
Millicent stared at him with something like wonder. "You really mean that, don't you? You'd delay your own return home to help me."
"'Course I would," Harry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're my friend. Besides, what kind of person would I be if I just abandoned you when you need help?"
"A normal one, perhaps," Millicent said quietly. "Most people flee from the Rot, Harry. They don't carry its victims on their backs or learn dangerous magic to protect them."
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm not most people. Besides, you're not just 'a victim of the Rot.' You're Millicent. You're brilliant and kind and you make these amazing scarlet butterflies that somehow aren't terrifying despite being made of plague magic."
The blush that spread across Millicent's pale cheeks was definitely not from the Rot. "You... you really think that?"
"I really do," Harry said, surprised by his own boldness. Maybe it was being away from Hogwarts, away from the pressure of being the Boy Who Lived, but he felt like he could actually say what he meant for once.
"Thank you," Millicent whispered. "For everything. For carrying me, for protecting me, for... for caring about someone like me."
"Someone like you?" Harry frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Cursed. Dangerous. Born from corruption."
"Bollocks," Harry said firmly, earning a startled look from Millicent. "Sorry, but that's complete rubbish. You didn't choose to be born from the Rot any more than I chose to have my parents murdered by a dark wizard. We don't get to pick our origins, Millicent. We only get to pick what we do with the hand we're dealt."
"And what have you chosen to do with yours?"
Harry thought about it seriously. "Help people, I suppose. Stop bad things from happening when I can. Try to be the kind of person my parents would be proud of." He looked at her directly. "What about you?"
"I... I want to find a cure. Not just for myself, but for everyone affected by the Rot. I want to prove that something good can come from something terrible."
"See?" Harry said with a grin. "Told you you were brilliant."
Millicent laughed—the first real laugh Harry had heard from her since they'd met. It was a lovely sound, and it made something warm unfurl in his chest.
"We should probably get ready to leave soon," she said eventually, though she made no move to get up.
"Probably," Harry agreed, also staying put. "Roddard's been giving us those 'we need to move' looks for the past hour."
"Let him wait a bit longer," Millicent said with uncharacteristic boldness. "I... I'm glad we talked, Harry. About everything."
"Me too," Harry said. And he meant it. For the first time since arriving in this nightmare world, he felt like he'd found something worth fighting for beyond just getting home. Someone worth protecting.
Ron and Hermione would probably have a right laugh about this, he thought. Harry Potter, falling for a girl made of plague magic in a world full of dragons and rot monsters. They'd say it was just like me to complicate things.
But looking at Millicent's gentle smile and the way her golden eye seemed to hold entire worlds of hope despite everything she'd suffered, Harry found he didn't much care how complicated things got.
Some things were worth the complexity.
"Ah, there you are," came Gowry's reedy voice from behind them. Harry turned to see the ancient scholar approaching with something clutched in his gnarled hands—a scroll that looked older than the Great Archive itself. The parchment was a sickly yellow-green color, like old cheese left out in the sun, and it seemed to pulse with a faint crimson light that made Harry's stomach turn.
"I've been thinking about your... unique situation, young Harry," Gowry continued, his wispy beard twitching as he spoke. "Your resistance to the Scarlet Rot is quite remarkable, but I fear it may not be enough for what lies ahead."
Harry helped Millicent to her feet, noticing how she instinctively stepped closer to him when she saw what Gowry was carrying. Even she seemed wary of whatever was written on that scroll.
"What's that then?" Harry asked, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. In his experience, ancient magical scrolls rarely contained instructions for making tea and biscuits.
"This," Gowry said with the reverent tone Professor Binns used when discussing particularly boring goblin rebellions, "contains the incantation known as Dancer of Decay. It's a... shall we say, controversial piece of magic."
"Controversial how?" Harry asked suspiciously. "Like 'might accidentally blow up the castle' controversial, or 'might turn me into a walking plague monster' controversial?"
Gowry's chuckle sounded like dried leaves rustling. "Perhaps a bit of both, if we're being honest. Here, read for yourself."
Harry took the scroll gingerly, half-expecting it to burst into flames or start screaming. Instead, the parchment felt warm against his fingers, and the text seemed to writhe slightly as he read:
Dancer of Decay: Greatly increases movement speed for a short time. While active, each step leaves a trail of rot spores behind, making the caster a mobile hazard.
"Blimey," Harry muttered, reading it again to make sure he'd understood correctly. "This makes me faster but also turns me into a... what, a Scarlet Rot sprinkler system?"
"A colorful but accurate description," Gowry nodded approvingly. "The incantation was developed during the height of the Scarlet Rot's spread, when conventional combat proved insufficient against the plague's advance."
Harry looked up from the scroll, his green eyes narrowing. "Hold on. You want me to learn Scarlet Rot magic? We're trying to cure the bloody stuff, not spread it around like confetti at a wedding."
"I understand your hesitation," Gowry said, settling into one of his floating chairs with a thoughtful expression. "It does seem counterintuitive, doesn't it? Rather like fighting fire with fire."
"More like fighting fire with nuclear weapons," Harry said, remembering something Uncle Vernon had shouted at the television once. "Why would you even suggest this?"
Millicent placed her hand on Harry's arm. "Perhaps we should listen to his reasoning," she said softly, though Harry could see the concern in her golden eye.
Gowry stroked his beard, looking every inch the wise scholar Harry had initially taken him for. "Tell me, Harry, what do you know about Princess Malenia's training?"
"Not much," Harry admitted. "Just that she was incredibly powerful and eventually she fought General Radahn."
"Indeed. But before she embraced that title, before she accepted the Rot as part of her identity, she spent years fighting against it." Gowry's voice took on a more serious tone. "This very incantation was one of the techniques she used during her training. Not to spread the Rot, but to understand it, to master it rather than be mastered by it."
Harry frowned, thinking of his own struggles with dark magic. Professor Lupin had always said that understanding your enemies was crucial to defeating them, but this felt different. More dangerous.
"So you're saying Malenia used Rot magic to... what, build up an immunity?"
"In a sense, yes." Gowry leaned forward, his ancient eyes glinting. "By learning to channel the Rot's power without being consumed by it, she gained unprecedented control over her condition. Of course, in the end..." He trailed off with a sad shake of his head.
"In the end, she lost herself to it anyway," Harry finished grimly.
"True. But that was after centuries of warfare, after using powers far beyond what I'm suggesting for you. The Dancer of Decay is relatively mild by comparison—a tool for survival, not conquest."
Harry looked down at the scroll again, his mind racing.
"You're saying I need this to survive Caelid," he said.
"I'm saying that in this rotted wasteland, honor and moral purity are luxuries that can get you killed," Gowry replied bluntly. "The creatures here don't care about your noble intentions, Harry. They care about tearing you apart and feasting on your remains."
Cheerful. Harry glanced at Millicent, who was watching him with that expression she got when she was trying to solve a particularly complex problem. He could practically see her weighing the risks and benefits in her head.
"What do you think?" he asked her.
Millicent was quiet for a long moment. "I think," she said carefully, "that Gowry speaks wisdom, even if it's uncomfortable wisdom. We've seen what the creatures of Caelid can do. If this gives you an advantage..."
"But?" Harry prompted, sensing there was more.
"But I also think you're right to be cautious. The Rot is seductive, Harry. It whispers that power is worth any price. You must be very careful not to listen too closely to those whispers."
Gowry nodded approvingly. "Wise words from a wise young woman. The key, Harry, is moderation and purpose. Use this magic only when absolutely necessary, only to protect those you care about. Never for convenience, never for anger."
Harry thought about the times he'd used his Rotten Breath incantation—always in desperate situations, always to save lives. He'd managed to resist the corruption so far, hadn't he?
Though I did hear that voice telling me to eat Aurelia, he reminded himself with a shudder. Maybe I'm not as resistant as I thought.
"If I learn this," he said slowly, "it's only as a last resort. Only if there's no other way."
"Of course," Gowry said, though something in his tone suggested he thought Harry might change his mind about that sooner than expected.
"And if I start going mental from Rot poisoning, you lot have permission to hit me with the biggest stick you can find until I snap out of it."
That earned him a small smile from Millicent. "I think we can manage that."
"Right then." Harry rolled up the scroll, trying to ignore the way it seemed to pulse against his fingers like a heartbeat. "How exactly does one learn to become a 'Dancer of Decay'? Please tell me it doesn't involve actual dancing, because I'm rubbish at it."
Gowry chuckled. "No choreography required, I assure you. The technique is more about learning to move with the Rot's rhythm rather than against it. Think of it as... guided falling, if you will."
"Guided falling," Harry repeated flatly. "That sounds about as reassuring as 'controlled explosion.'"
"You'll do fine," Gowry said with the confidence of someone who wouldn't be the one risking Rot poisoning. "Your natural resistance should protect you from the worst effects. And who knows? Perhaps understanding this aspect of the Rot will help us develop a more complete cure."
Harry nodded, though privately he thought that was about as likely as Dudley voluntarily going on a diet. Still, if it meant keeping Millicent and Roddard safe during their journey to find Commander O'Neil, it might be worth the risk.
Besides, he thought, it's not like my life hasn't been completely barmy since I turned eleven. What's one more potentially deadly magical technique?
"Alright," he said aloud. "Let's get started."
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By the third day, Harry was beginning to think his arms might actually fall off.
"Again," Roddard commanded, his voice echoing through the practice chamber Gowry had cleared for them. "Your form is still terrible. You're swinging that sword like it's a cricket bat, not a weapon of war."
Harry wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of grime across his glasses. "I'm trying alright," he panted, hefting the Lordsworn Greatsword again. The weapon felt heavier each day, though Gowry insisted that was just his muscles adapting to proper technique.
Across the chamber, Millicent looked up from a towering stack of books with titles like "Fundamentals of Rot Suppression" and "The Needle of Unalloyed Gold: Theory and Application." She'd been reading constantly for the past week, taking notes with her remaining hand in handwriting so neat it made Hermione's look sloppy.
"Perhaps a break?" she suggested diplomatically. "Harry's been at this for four hours straight."
"The boy needs conditioning," Roddard replied, though Harry noticed he lowered his spear. "Commander O'Neil won't be impressed by his academic achievements."
Harry slumped against the wall, grateful for the reprieve. The stone was cool against his back, a welcome relief from the constant exertion. These seven days had been the most physically demanding of his life—and that was saying something, considering he'd played Quidditch and fought a basilisk.
"Right," he said, catching his breath. "Let's try the Rot stuff again."
Gowry looked up from his own research, ancient scrolls spread across a floating table like a particularly dangerous meal. "Ah yes, the Dancer of Decay. How are you finding the rhythm?"
"Like trying to waltz with a hurricane," Harry said honestly. The Rot-based incantation was unlike anything he'd ever attempted—where his Lightning Spear felt natural, like an extension of his anger and determination, the Dancer of Decay required him to embrace something darker. Something that whispered seductively about power and corruption.
"That's actually quite poetic," Millicent observed with a small smile. "And surprisingly accurate."
Harry pushed himself off the wall and moved to the center of the chamber. Over the past week, he'd learned to feel the Rot's presence like a constant hum beneath his skin—not unpleasant, exactly, but definitely unnatural.
He closed his eyes and reached for that crimson energy, letting it flow through his veins like liquid fire. The sensation was intoxicating—speed beyond anything he'd ever experienced, reflexes sharp enough to dodge Roddard's practice strikes. But each time he used it, he heard that voice whispering about embracing the corruption, about letting it remake him into something more.
No, he told himself firmly. I'm Harry Potter, not some plague monster.
He opened his eyes and began the sequence Gowry had taught him—a series of rapid movements that looked almost like dancing, if dancing involved leaving trails of crimson spores in the air. His body moved faster than should be possible, covering the chamber's length in three quick steps.
"Better," Gowry nodded approvingly. "You're learning to work with the Rot rather than against it. How do you feel?"
"Like I could run to Scotland and back," Harry said, then frowned. "And a voice telling me that I should let more power flow through me."
"That would be the corruption speaking," Gowry said matter-of-factly. "Ignore it. The whispers fade with practice."
"Do they, though?" Harry asked, voicing the worry that had been gnawing at him all week. "Or do you just stop noticing them?"
"I suppose," Millicent said quietly, "that depends on how strong your sense of self is. How clearly you remember who you are when the power calls."
Harry nodded, thinking of his friends back at Hogwarts. Ron, who'd stood on a broken leg to protect him from a supposed mass murderer. Hermione, who'd risked her life to protect him from Lupin in his werewolf form. They were his anchors, his reminders of who he wanted to be.
"Right then," he said, moving on to lightning practice. "Let's see if I can manage Vyke's Dragonbolt without exploding anything important."
This part of training felt more familiar, more like himself. Harry gathered electrical energy in his chest, feeling it crackle along his arms and into his sword. The technique was still unstable—more often than not, the lightning fizzled out or discharged randomly—but when it worked, the results were spectacular.
Golden electricity danced along the Lordsworn Greatsword's edge as Harry brought it down on a practice dummy. The blade cut through the straw and wood like it was paper, leaving a perfectly cauterized slice.
"Show off," Roddard said, but Harry could hear approval in his voice.
"Says the man who can twirl a spear like a baton," Harry retorted, earning what might have been a chuckle from the knight.
That evening, as they shared another meal of Gowry's mysteriously conjured food (Harry had learned not to ask too many questions about where it came from), Roddard did something unexpected. He removed his helmet.
Harry had been wondering for days what the Cleanrot Knight looked like beneath all that armor. The reality was... well, human. Roddard had a weathered face, graying brown hair, and kind eyes that didn't match his gruff demeanor at all. There were scars across his cheek and forehead—old ones, the kind that came from years of battle.
"You know," Roddard said, apparently noticing Harry's stare, "I was about your age when I first became a squire."
"Really?" Harry asked.
"Mmm. Cocky little brat, thought I knew everything about swordplay because I'd won a few tournament bouts." Roddard's scarred face cracked into what might have been a smile. "My knight—Sir Zahhan was his name—took me out for my first real patrol. We encountered a pack of wolves, nothing too dangerous for an experienced warrior."
"But dangerous for a cocky squire?" Millicent guessed.
"Terrifying for a cocky squire," Roddard corrected. "I froze up completely. Would have been torn apart if Sir Zahhan hadn't stepped in. Afterward, he made me practice with weighted training swords until I could barely lift my arms."
"Sounds familiar," Harry said dryly.
"The point, boy, is that skill takes time. You've improved more in seven days than most manage in seven months. Your instincts are good, even if your technique needs work."
It was probably the closest thing to a compliment Harry had ever heard from the knight. He felt a warm glow of pride.
"Thanks," he said simply.
As they prepared for sleep—Gowry had conjured bedrolls that were surprisingly comfortable—Harry found himself thinking about how much had changed since he'd first stumbled into Caelid. A week ago, he'd been alone and terrified. Now he had companions, people who cared about his wellbeing and were teaching him to survive in this impossible world.
It's not home, he thought, watching Millicent curl up near the warmth of a magical brazier. But it's not bad either.
Four Days Later
"Right then," Harry said, crouching down so Millicent could climb onto his back. "All aboard the Harry Express. Next stop, presumably somewhere even more nightmarish than this place."
Millicent's remaining arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Harry tried not to notice how her breath tickled his ear or how she smelled faintly of roses despite being literally born from a plague. Get a grip, Potter, he told himself. You're supposed to be thinking about finding that needle, not about how nice she smells.
"Are you certain you can carry me the whole way?" Millicent asked, her voice softer than usual. "I could try walking for short distances..."
"Absolutely not," Harry said firmly, standing up and adjusting his grip on her legs. After a week of Roddard's brutal training regime, carrying Millicent felt surprisingly manageable. "Besides, you weigh about as much as Hedwig when she's had a particularly large meal."
He felt rather than saw Millicent's blush, the way her skin grew warmer against his back. "That's... that's very gallant of you," she murmured.
Roddard's armor clanked as he shouldered his pack, his helmet once again hiding his scarred features. "If you two are quite finished with your romantic comedy routine, we should move. The longer we linger at Sellia's edge, the more attention we'll draw from the things that hunt in the wasteland."
"Romantic comedy?" Harry spluttered, feeling his own face heat up. "We're not—I mean, it's not—"
"Of course not," Roddard said in the tone of someone humoring a particularly dense child. "My mistake. Clearly this is a stirring tale of knightly valor and nothing more."
Gowry emerged from the Great Archive's entrance, looking every inch the concerned grandfather. "Remember, young Harry," he said, pressing a small vial of glowing liquid into Harry's free hand. "If the Rot whispers become too insistent, drink this. It won't cure anything, but it should clear your head long enough to make rational decisions."
"Thank you," Harry said, tucking the vial carefully into his robes. The old scholar's kindness reminded him painfully of Dumbledore—someone who cared about his wellbeing even when Harry himself forgot to. "For everything, really. The training, the knowledge... looking after us."
Gowry's weathered face softened into a genuine smile. "It has been my honor, young man. In all my years of study, I've rarely met someone with such determination to help others, even at cost to himself." He placed a gnarled hand on Harry's shoulder. "Your parents, wherever they are, would be immensely proud of the person you've become."
"Take care of each other out there," Gowry continued, his eyes moving to include Millicent and Roddard. "You three have something precious—trust, loyalty, genuine affection. Don't let this cursed world steal that from you."
Harry was beginning to understand why Hermione always got a bit teary when teachers showed they actually cared about their students' futures.
"We will met again." Harry promised him.
They passed through Sellia's main gate without ceremony—a massive archway that thrummed with protective magic. Harry felt the barrier's energy wash over them like walking through a warm curtain, and then they were outside, standing on what Roddard had called the Rotten Road.
The difference was immediate and stomach-churning. Where Sellia had been filled with clean air and floating books, the world beyond reeked of decay and sickness. The road itself was barely recognizable as such—what might once have been paved with iron or stone was now a cracked, pustulent mess that squelched underfoot.
"Lovely," Harry muttered, stepping carefully around what looked like a pool of bubbling crimson liquid. "Really brings out the natural beauty of the landscape."
"This was once called the Iron Road," Roddard explained, his spear held ready as they began walking. "One of the main thoroughfares connecting the southern settlements to Sellia. Merchants would travel it daily, carrying goods and news between the towns."
Harry tried to imagine this rotted wasteland as a bustling trade route and failed completely.
"What happened to all the merchants?" he asked.
"Dead. Fled. Transformed into something that's no longer quite human." Roddard's matter-of-fact tone somehow made it worse. "The Rot doesn't distinguish between soldier and civilian, Harry. It consumes everything."
As they crested a small hill, Harry got his first clear view of the landscape beyond Sellia, and his breath caught in his throat. Stretching out below them was what should have been a valley, but instead of green fields or even normal wasteland, there was... nothing. Nothing but a vast expanse of crimson mist that shifted and writhed like something alive.
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered. "What is that?"
Roddard stopped walking, his armored form suddenly very still. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight of sadness that Harry had never heard from the knight before.
"That was the Sea of Mother Tear," he said quietly. "One of the most beautiful places in all the Lands Between. Crystal-clear waters that reflected the Erdtree's light, shores lined with flowers that bloomed in every color imaginable."
Millicent's grip on Harry's shoulders tightened. "Before the battle," she said softly.
"Before your mother's battle with General Radahn," Roddard confirmed. "They fought for days, neither able to claim victory. In the end, Princess Malenia resorted to... desperate measures."
Harry felt anger building in his chest—hot, furious rage at the casual destruction of so much life. How could anyone, even in the depths of war, choose to do something so catastrophic? How could Malenia live with herself after—
He caught himself, glancing back at Millicent's pale face. She was staring at the ruined sea with an expression of such profound grief that it made Harry's anger feel petty and selfish.
She's Malenia's daughter, he reminded himself. How do you think she feels, knowing her mother did this?
"I'm sorry," Millicent whispered, so quietly Harry almost missed it. "For what she did. For what I am."
"Don't," Harry said firmly. "Don't you dare apologize for existing, Millicent. You didn't choose this any more than the people who lived here chose to die."
"But she's my mother—"
"And Voldemort murdered my parents," Harry interrupted. "That doesn't make me responsible for every person he's killed. You are not your mother's sins."
Roddard nodded approvingly. "The boy speaks wisdom. Princess Malenia made her choice, and the Lands Between bears the cost. But you, Lady Millicent, choose differently every day."
They walked in contemplative silence for a while, the Rotten Road squelching beneath their feet. Harry found himself thinking about the world he'd left behind—Hogwarts with its moving staircases and talking portraits, Diagon Alley with its cheerful chaos, even Privet Drive with its boring normalcy. Had his world ever been as beautiful as this place must have been before the Shattering?
"Roddard," he said eventually. "What was this world like before? Before the Shattering, I mean."
The knight was quiet for so long that Harry thought he might not answer.
"I was young when the Shattering occurred," he said. "Barely a man, really. But I remember... I remember a time when the roads were safe to travel, when the Erdtree's light reached every corner of the realm. There was still conflict, but it was mostly minor stuff, bandits and such."
"What changed?" Harry asked.
"Someone shattered the Elden Ring," Roddard said simply. "The day peace died and the eternal fight for power began. Every demigod claimed a piece of the Ring, and with it, a piece of the realm to rule. What had been a unified kingdom became a collection of warring territories. The Golden Order remains in the Capital, and they refuse to leave that place."
"Have you seen it? The capital, I mean?"
"Once. I was part of an embassy to Leyndell when I was still a squire." Roddard's voice took on a note of wonder. "A grand, enormous city built at the base of the Erdtree itself. Streets paved with gold, towers that reached toward the heavens, walls that could withstand any siege. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
"And now?"
"Now it's a fortress under siege, its gates sealed against all who would enter. The Erdtree's light grows dim, and the Golden Order struggles to maintain control over a realm that no longer believes in its authority."
Harry shifted Millicent's weight, trying to imagine a city of gold under a giant tree. It sounded like something from one of Hermione's fairy tale books—too beautiful and perfect to be real.
But it was real, he thought.
"Do you think it can be fixed?" he asked. "The Shattering, I mean. Could someone put the Elden Ring back together?"
"Perhaps," Roddard said. "If they could gather all the Great Runes, defeat all the demigods, and prove themselves worthy to become Elden Lord. But Prince Miquella will find a way to fix things. I know it in my heart that wherever he is, he is working to build a new order for this world. To make this world a better place for everyone." Roddard spoke with such admiration, but Harry wasn't sure what to think. He had never met this Prince Miquella, but he had made the needle to save his own sister and Millicent. He sounded like a good Prince, like someone worth following, but where was he right now? Was he working on fixing this world?
Harry did not know, and he knew it was pointless to ask.
"So," he said, trying to distract himself from the grim surroundings, "what exactly are our chances of finding Commander O'Neil at this Redmane Castle? Because I've got to say, wandering around Caelid asking random plague monsters if they've seen a legendary knight doesn't sound like the most brilliant plan."
Roddard's spear clinked against his armor as he adjusted his grip. "Truthfully? I don't believe the Commander is at the castle."
Harry nearly stumbled over a particularly disgusting puddle of crimson sludge. "Come again? Then why are we walking toward it through this nightmare landscape?"
"Because," Roddard said patiently, "Commander O'Neil was a man of duty above all else. If he's still alive—and that's a considerable 'if'—he would have tried to complete his mission. Prince Miquella entrusted him with delivering that needle to Lady Millicent. The Commander wouldn't have simply hidden in a castle while his task remained unfinished."
Millicent shifted against Harry's back, her voice thoughtful. "You think he's still out there somewhere, looking for me?"
"If he lives, yes," Roddard confirmed. "Which means he's somewhere in Caelid, probably dying by inches from Rot exposure while stubbornly refusing to give up."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "So we're looking for one man in a region the size of Scotland, who might be dead, who might be transformed into a plague monster, or who might be hiding in any one of a thousand ruins."
"When you put it like that, it does sound rather hopeless," Millicent said with what Harry was learning to recognize as her particular brand of understated humor.
Roddard stopped walking for a moment, turning to face them with what Harry imagined was a serious expression behind his helmet. "It's not entirely hopeless. Castle Redmane is still our best starting point. If the Commander was there, the soldiers might know which direction he went when he left. They might have information about his movements, his plans."
"And if they don't?" Harry asked.
"Then we search every ruin, every cave, every standing structure until we find him or confirmation of his death." Roddard's matter-of-fact tone somehow made the monumental task sound almost reasonable. "It won't be easy, but—"
A roar split the air above them—deep, resonant, and filled with such raw anguish that Harry felt it in his bones. All three of them looked up simultaneously, and Harry's mouth fell open at what he saw.
Flying overhead was something that might once have been magnificent. A dragon, easily the size of a big house, but its wings were tattered things—half the membrane had rotted away, leaving bone and sinew visible against the blood-red sky. Chunks of flesh were missing from its torso, revealing ribs that gleamed with an oily, infected sheen. As it passed over them, drops of something Harry really didn't want to identify spattered onto the road nearby.
"Sweet Merlin," Harry whispered, watching the grotesque creature struggle to stay airborne. "That thing's still alive?"
"The Rot keeps its victims alive long past the point where death would be merciful," Millicent said quietly, her golden eye tracking the dragon's labored flight. "It feeds on life, sustaining its hosts just enough to spread further."
"Even dragons can't resist it?"
"Nothing can resist it forever," Roddard said grimly. "Dragons, men, trees, the very stones themselves. The Scarlet Rot consumes all things given enough time."
They watched in horrified fascination as the dragon's flight became increasingly erratic. One wing finally gave out completely, and the massive creature plummeted behind a distant hill with a crash that shook the ground beneath their feet.
"Is there anyone still sane left in this place?" he asked, genuine worry creeping into his voice. "Anyone who might actually help us instead of trying to eat us or infect us with magical plague?"
Roddard considered this as they navigated around what looked like a tree made entirely of bones and rotting flesh. "Castle Redmane should still have some survivors. General Radahn's forces were among the most disciplined in the Lands Between, and the castle's fortifications are strong. If anyone could maintain their sanity and humanity in this wasteland, it would be them."
"Should have survivors," Harry repeated. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."
"I won't lie to you, Harry," Roddard said, his honesty both refreshing and terrifying. "The people of Caelid have endured horrors beyond imagination. Even if we find survivors at the castle, there's no guarantee they'll be willing to help us. They might see Lady Millicent as the source of their suffering rather than another victim."
Millicent's arms tightened around Harry's shoulders. "They wouldn't be wrong," she said softly. "I am connected to the one who brought this doom upon them."
"You're connected to the one who might help cure it," Harry said firmly. "If we can find that needle, if we can prove that the Rot can be stopped... that might give them hope. Real hope, not just the desperate kind that keeps people alive day by day."
There was a long moment of silence between the three of them as they walked.
Harry spotted them first. Dark shapes moving about two hundred meters ahead, clustered around what looked like a camp of sorts. At this distance, they appeared almost normal, which in Caelid was immediately suspicious.
"Hold up," he said, crouching slightly to make himself less visible while keeping his grip on Millicent secure. "There's people up ahead."
Roddard's helmet turned toward the distant figures, and Harry could practically feel the knight's eyes narrowing. "General Radahn's men, by their armor," he said after a moment. "We should go around them."
"Why?" Harry asked, then immediately regretted the question as his enhanced eyesight, courtesy of his dragon transformations, began picking out details he really didn't want to see. "Wait...what are they doing to him..."
The soldiers weren't just camping. They were feeding. And what they were feeding on had once worn the same armor they did.
Harry's stomach lurched violently, bile rising in his throat. He'd seen some horrific things since arriving in this world, the rotting dragon, Aurelia's transformation, the endless parade of corrupted creatures, but there was something particularly nauseating about watching people devour one of their own comrades like animals.
Don't think about it, he told himself desperately. Just don't think about it and maybe you won't throw up all over Millicent.
"We need to move," Roddard said urgently. "Now, before they—"
"Too late," Millicent whispered.
One of the soldiers had looked up from his grisly meal, and his eyes, still human, still intelligent, which somehow made it worse, locked onto their small group. He said something to his companions, and suddenly all five of them were on their feet, weapons in their hands.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword.
The soldiers began approaching carefully, moving in a defensive formation. Their armor was dented and stained with things he didn't want to identify, but it was clearly good quality. These weren't random bandits or mindless plague victims; these were trained soldiers who'd simply... adapted to their circumstances in the worst possible way.
"Cleanrot Knight!" one of them shouted, pointing at Roddard with a blood-stained spear. "One of her knights! One of her lapdogs!"
Her? Harry thought, then realized they meant Malenia. Of course, they'd recognize Roddard's armor as belonging to Malenia's forces.
"Wait!" Millicent called out, her voice carrying clearly across the diseased landscape. "Please, we don't want to fight!"
The soldiers paused, and for a moment Harry thought diplomacy might actually work. Then the lead soldier, distinguishable by his more ornate helmet and the particularly vicious-looking sword in his hands got a proper look at Millicent.
"By the Erdtree's roots," he breathed. "Is that...? No, it can't be."
"Princess Malenia?" another soldier whispered with fear, backing away.
"No," the leader said after studying Millicent more carefully. "Too young, too weak. But she's got the look, doesn't she? The red hair, the golden eye." His voice turned venomous. "And she reeks of Scarlet Rot."
Harry felt Millicent flinch against his back, and something protective and furious uncoiled in his chest. These soldiers might have reasons for their hatred, but they had no right to make Millicent feel ashamed of something she couldn't control.
"She's not Malenia," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "She's just—"
"Just another spawn of the Lady of Rot," the leader spat. "Another walking plague-bearer come to finish what her mother started."
"Malenia ran away with her tail between her legs anyway," another soldier added bitterly. "Bloomed her rot like a coward and then fled when she saw what she'd done."
Millicent straightened on Harry's back and spoke.
"You're right to hate what happened here," she said, her words clear and compassionate despite the hostility facing them. "You're right to grieve for what you've lost. But killing us won't bring any of it back. Enough people have died already, enough families have been destroyed. When does it end?"
The soldiers exchanged glances. Then one of them, a younger man whose face was gaunt with hunge, let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
"Families?" he said, his voice cracking. "You want to talk about families, little plague-bringer? I went home two weeks after the Bloom. You know what I found?"
Harry really didn't want to know, but the soldier continued anyway.
"Trees," he said, tears streaming down his dirt-stained face. "Trees with faces. My wife's face growing out of bark, my daughter's eyes staring at me from a trunk, still aware, still suffering. My little boy..." He choked on the words. "Half child, half tree. Still breathing, still trying to speak, but the wood had grown through his throat."
"Perran," the leader said quietly, placing a hand on the younger soldier's shoulder.
"No!" Perran shook him off. "She needs to hear this! They all need to hear what their precious Princess did!" He turned his wild eyes back to Millicent. "Do you know what mercy looks like for a tree that used to be your family? Do you know what you have to do when your own children beg you to end their suffering?"
Another soldier stepped forward, his face hollow with remembered horror. "Found my boys in the kitchen," he said in a dead voice. "Feasting on their mother's corpse. The Rot had driven them mad with hunger, but they were still my children. Still had their faces, their voices. They looked up at me with bloody mouths and asked when dinner would be ready."
"I'm sorry," Millicent said, and Harry could hear tears in her voice. "I'm so, so sorry for what happened to your families. For what she did. If I could undo it, if I could bring them back—"
"But you can't," the leader said flatly. "And your pretty words don't change the fact that you're one of hers. Another vessel for the Rot to spread through."
"She's not spreading anything," Harry said firmly. "We're trying to find a cure. There's a needle, made by Prince Miquella, that can halt the Rot's progression. We're looking for Commander O'Neil—"
"O'Neil's dead," Perran spat. "Or worse than dead. Last anyone saw of him, he was wandering towards the Sea of Mother Tear, or The Sea of Rot, muttering about duty and honor while the Rot ate through his brain."
"But we could still find him," Millicent said desperately. "The needle could help people like him, like all of you. The Rot doesn't have to win."
The leader hefted his sword, and Harry could see the finality in his posture. "The Rot already won, girl. Look around you. This whole land is dying, and your Princess made sure of that. The best we can do now is make sure no more of her spawn survive to spread it further."
"Please," Millicent tried one more time. "I know you've suffered. I know you have every reason to hate what I represent. But I'm not my mother. I don't want to spread the Rot—I want to stop it. We all do."
"Pretty words," the leader said, raising his weapon. "But I've heard pretty words before. From officials who promised aid that never came. From knights who swore to protect us then abandoned us to the plague. From my own commander, who told us to hold the line while he retreated to safety."
He took a step forward, and his men flanked him with military precision.
"I'm done with pretty words," he said.
So much for diplomacy, he thought grimly. Hermione always said talking was better than fighting, but sometimes people just won't listen.
"Last chance," the leader called out. "Walk away, knight. Leave the plague-bearer to us and we'll let you live."
"Not happening," Harry said before Roddard could respond. These soldiers might have tragic reasons for their hatred, but he wasn't about to abandon Millicent to appease their grief.
"Then you'll die with her," the leader said, and raised his sword to charge.
That's when the screech split the air above them, a sound so loud and horrible that it made everyone freeze in place.
"DEATHBIRD!" one of the soldiers screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror.
Harry looked up and immediately wished he hadn't.
Descending from the blood-red sky was something that might have once been magnificent. A bird the size of a house, with wings that could have blotted out the sun, but every inch of its flesh had been stripped away to reveal bone and sinew underneath. Its skull was a gleaming white cathedral of death, eyeless sockets somehow still seeing. Tattered remnants of feathers clung to its wing bones like funeral shrouds, and when it opened its beak, Harry could see rows of teeth that definitely didn't belong in any bird he'd ever studied in Care of Magical Creatures.
And I thought Buckbeak was intimidating, Harry thought hysterically as the creature landed with earth-shaking force not twenty meters away.
The Deathbird moved with horrifying speed for something so massive. One moment it was touching down, the next it had lunged forward and seized one of the soldiers, the young one.
"No!" Perran screamed, rushing toward his fallen comrade, but the Deathbird's beak descended like a pickaxe, tearing chunks of flesh from the young one's shoulder with wet, horrible sounds that would probably haunt Harry's nightmares for years to come.
Harry didn't think.
Lightning crackled along his right arm as he extended his hand, and a brilliant spear of electrical energy shot across the clearing to strike the Deathbird square in its exposed ribcage. The creature stumbled, its grip on Jakon loosening enough for the soldier to scramble away, leaving a trail of blood in the corrupted soil.
The Deathbird's skull turned toward Harry with the slow, deliberate movement of an ancient predator identifying a new threat. Those empty eye sockets fixed on him, and he could swear he felt something cold and hungry probing at the edges of his mind.
"You absolute bloody idiot!" Roddard's voice cut through Harry's shock like a slap. "What are you thinking? We should be running, this is not our problem!"
"Can't run," Harry said, his voice surprisingly steady as he gently lowered Millicent to the ground behind a chunk of broken stonework. "That thing's faster than us, and those soldiers are hurt."
"Those soldiers were about to kill us!" Roddard protested, but Harry noticed the knight was already moving into a combat stance.
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, drawing his sword. "They're people. People in trouble."
The Deathbird took a step toward them, and the ground shook. Its head tilted with bird-like curiosity, as if trying to decide which of them looked the most appetizing.
Around the clearing, the soldiers were regrouping. Perran was dragging the wounded Jakon to safety while the others formed a defensive line, their earlier hostility toward Harry's group apparently forgotten in the face of a much more immediate threat.
"Form up!" the lead soldier shouted. "Spears to the front, swords ready for when it closes! And somebody get Jakon some bloody bandages before he bleeds out!"
"Harry," Millicent called from her position behind the stone, her voice tight with worry. "Be careful. Deathbirds are ancient creatures, they're drawn to death and suffering. The more violence there is, the stronger they become."
The Deathbird spread its wings, two huge arms made entirely of bones, and let out another of those soul-shredding screeches.
"Any brilliant ideas?" he called to Roddard, who was circling to flank the creature.
"Don't die," Roddard replied helpfully. "Beyond that, we make it up as we go."
In that moment, the Deathbird launched himself straight at Harry, but unlike the young soldier, Harry rolled away, and used his sword, but it barely scratched it's skull and Roddard used his spear to pierce the eyeless socket, it let out a screech, before taking flight, and then her body started forming dark flames.
"Stand Ready! Do not Retreat!" The captain of the soldiers shouted at the Deathbird descended on them once again.
The Battle had started.
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