The walls of the International Confederation of Wizards' Great Assembly Hall in Geneva did not usually tremble. They had been reinforced centuries ago with wards that could absorb even the recoil of a basilisk's scream. Tonight, however, they quivered—not from spellfire but from fear.
Representatives from forty-seven nations crowded the crescent-shaped chamber, their cloaks a riot of colors, their voices an unrelenting storm. The sound rose like a parliament of crows, each demanding to be heard, each terrified of being ignored.
On the high dais, the Supreme Mugwump, Matthias Kader of Austria, slammed a golden staff against the floor. The runes inscribed along its shaft flashed once, silencing the hall. The quiet that followed was worse than the chaos.
"They are calling it the Infection," he said grimly, his German accent clipped and precise. "Magical systems across Europe are failing—wards unraveling, artifacts collapsing, ley-lines bending. We have reports from Paris, Rome, Madrid. London is worst of all."
A Romanian delegate stood. "And what is causing it?"
The Supreme Mugwump's pale eyes swept the chamber. "We know."
At his gesture, an enchanted globe rose from the center of the floor. Veins of light crawled across its surface, pulsing in strange, jagged rhythms. Some ran like rivers across continents. Others branched like trees, tangled and asymmetrical. All of them led back to a single epicenter: Britain.
A murmur spread like wildfire. The globe rotated, showing the threads of infection spreading outward, curling through the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, even stretching as far as North Africa and Asia Minor.
"The Architect," spat a voice.
All eyes turned to Emily Rookwood, who had risen from her seat at the British delegation. Her face was pale, her lips bloodless, but her eyes burned with something volcanic.
"Yes," she continued, her voice steady despite the rage trembling beneath it. "He is not a rumor. He is not a phantom. He is a warlord in the making. I've seen his work—wards shredded like parchment, spells bent into new forms, magic treated like numbers in a ledger. And unless we stop him, he will own us all."
A delegate from India scoffed. "A boy? Seventeen, perhaps eighteen? You expect us to believe a child threatens the global order?"
Emily's glare cut like broken glass. "Grindelwald was barely thirty when he began. Voldemort younger still. This one is different. He doesn't chase power for glory or revenge. He is building a system. A living, breathing order where he becomes the code the world runs on. That makes him infinitely worse."
The silence that followed was heavy.
From the shadows at the rear, a tall man with skin the color of polished mahogany rose. This was Kwame Adusei of Ghana, renowned as one of the last great battle-mages alive. His deep voice filled the chamber like a drum.
"If this Architect is spreading corruption through ley-lines, then containment is already impossible. We must cut him out before he grows into the roots themselves. Form a strike force. Not Aurors. Not scholars. Warriors."
Murmurs of agreement rippled.
The Supreme Mugwump nodded slowly. "Then it is decided. The Confederation authorizes the creation of a coalition task unit—an elite order forged from our finest. They will be called… the Sentinels."
The name dropped like an iron weight into the chamber.
Emily Rookwood lifted her chin. "Then I will lead them."
Gasps broke out. A French delegate sneered. "You? Your bloodline is tainted with—"
Her wand flicked, faster than sight, and a spark crackled across the air, striking the marble floor at his feet. "Say it," she hissed, "and I will remind you what my bloodline is capable of."
No one challenged her again.
---
The Sentinel Forging
The decision moved quickly. Too quickly. Fear drove haste, and haste carved the Sentinels in only seven days.
From the Americas came Aurora Delgado, curse-breaker of Mexico, known for dismantling wards older than empires.
From Japan came Masaru Ito, a silent duelist who had once fought twelve dark mages and walked away without a scratch.
From Egypt came Amira Shafiq, a desert witch who commanded sand and wind like an extension of her breath.
From Norway came Torvald Skarsgard, whose giant-blood gave him strength enough to crush stone and magic enough to bend it.
And at their head, Emily Rookwood—fire incarnate.
Their mission: infiltrate Britain, locate the source of the Infection, and sever it. Permanently.
---
The Briefing
In a chamber deep beneath the ICW, lit only by floating blue lanterns, the Sentinels stood around a massive rune-carved table. Maps shimmered in light, showing the infection threads crawling outward from London like veins of a sick heart.
Aurora Delgado tapped the map. "Every pulse originates here." Her finger pressed against a circle drawn around the city. "But there's more. The Infection doesn't just spread—it adapts. My scouts reported wards that mutated when struck, like a curse that learned from every attempt to break it."
Masaru Ito's expression never changed, but his voice was razor-thin. "A sentient code."
Emily's jaw tightened. "Not sentient. Directed. He's guiding it."
Torvald leaned forward, his bulk casting shadows. "Then we cut off the head."
Emily's eyes flashed. "Exactly. We find the Architect, and we end him. Not capture. Not containment. End."
No one objected.
---
The Departure
The night they left Geneva, storm clouds rolled across the Alps. Lightning forked against the peaks as the Sentinels assembled at the edge of a shimmering portal carved into the air.
Emily looked back only once at the ICW fortress. Behind her, hundreds of officials, Aurors, and envoys watched in silence. Some prayed. Others looked away.
"Do not fail us," whispered the Supreme Mugwump.
Emily's reply was ice-cold. "I don't intend to."
With that, she stepped through the portal, vanishing into the storm. One by one, the others followed.
---
The Landing
They emerged not in London proper but in the ruins of Dover Castle. The sea wind howled through shattered towers, and the stench of salt and rot hung heavy.
Aurora cast a detection charm. The air shimmered with threads of green light, webbing out like veins across the ground, crawling inland toward London. Each pulse was a heartbeat.
"Do you feel that?" Amira whispered. The sand at her feet stirred, restless. "It's alive."
Emily's grip tightened on her wand. "Good. That means we're close."
---
The Watching Eye
Unseen, high above the cliffs, a sphere of glass and bone hovered silently. Its mirrored surface rippled with green light, feeding its vision back into the heart of the Leviathan.
And within, Eric Dillan watched.
His eyes glowed faintly as he observed the Sentinels stepping into Britain. He listened to their voices, their plans, their arrogance.
A smile curved his lips.
"They've sent hunters," he murmured. "Perfect. Let the world test me."
He raised his hand, and the infection lines beneath the earth pulsed once, eager, like veins waiting for command.
"Let's see if the Sentinels can survive the code they fear."
---