The library was quiet, the soft rustling of pages and the occasional distant footsteps the only sounds breaking the stillness. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting warm golden streaks across the aged wooden tables and rows of books. It was midday now, but for Dumbledore, time seemed irrelevant.
He sat at one of the grand tables, surrounded by a sea of books he wasn't reading. His thoughts churned, replaying Cercy's cryptic words over and over in his mind:
"Next time, you should bring your lover along. That is, if he's still alive."
A warning? No… it didn't feel like one. A prophecy, then? She did have the ability to see into the future, after all. But why would she say such a thing, so casually, almost playfully?
Dumbledore's fingers tapped restlessly against the table as he tried to dismiss the notion. "He's in prison," he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it more convincing. "He's been there for years, locked away on that island. It can't be…"
But the seed of doubt had been planted, and no amount of logic could uproot it. His thoughts turned to Grindelwald, a name he had tried to bury in the deepest recesses of his mind. No matter how much he told himself he didn't care, that those feelings were long extinguished, the truth was far more complicated.
A sharp intake of breath interrupted his spiraling thoughts. He glanced up to see Minerva McGonagall. She hadn't noticed his internal struggle, too engrossed in her own thoughts.
Dumbledore blinked, a decision forming in his mind with startling clarity. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a jarring noise that made Minerva jump.
"Albus?" she asked, concern flickering in her eyes. "What's the matter?"
"I'm going," he said, his voice firm but distant as if he was speaking more to himself than to her. "I… I have to go right now."
Minerva's brow furrowed. "Go? Go where? Albus, what's going on?"
He didn't answer immediately, his mind racing. No matter how much he had tried to convince himself over the years that he didn't care about Gellert Grindelwald, that the man was nothing more than a painful chapter of his past, the urgency in his chest betrayed him.
Minerva rose from her seat, her book forgotten. "Albus, you're not making sense. What's wrong?"
Dumbledore turned to her, his blue eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. "I… need to check on something. Someone."
"Someone?" she repeated, her concern deepening. "Albus, if this is about that peculiar comment Cercy made—"
"It is about that," he interrupted, his tone sharper than he intended. "And you may think it's ridiculous, but I can't ignore it. Not this time."
Minerva hesitated, torn between questioning him further and trusting his judgment. "If you're going, at least tell me where—"
"I can't explain, Minerva," he said, softening his tone. "But I need you to trust me on this."
Before she could protest further, he turned and strode out of the library, his robes billowing behind him. The echo of his footsteps faded quickly, leaving Minerva standing there, puzzled and uneasy.
As Dumbledore made his way through the castle, his mind was a tempest of conflicting emotions. He thought of Nurmengard, the fortress prison where Gellert was confined, and the man himself—brilliant, dangerous, and once the most important person in his life.
No matter how much he lied to himself that those feelings were gone, that he was indifferent to Gellert's fate, his heart betrayed him. Now, with Cercy's words echoing in his mind, he found himself rushing, as if the faster he moved, the more he could convince himself that it was just precaution, nothing more.
But deep down, he knew the truth: no matter how much time had passed, a part of him would always care. And that terrified him.
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Inside the dimly lit control room of the Cube of Desire, the atmosphere felt thick with tension. The walls of the room pulsed with an otherworldly energy, humming as if the very air itself was charged with power. The sleek, obsidian panels glistened in the faint light, reflecting Hecate's figure as she stood at the central console, a sinister smile curling her lips.
She had just heard Cercy's cryptic words about bringing someone along next time, someone whose existence she'd yet to fully understand. The possibility that the Cube of Desire could turn mere thoughts, concepts, and rules into tangible reality was a revelation that seemed almost too grand to grasp. Yet, here she was, standing in the heart of the Cube, communicating directly with the voice that seemed to know every secret of the machine, every potential outcome.
"What was that last comment about?" Hecate's voice echoed through the room, her tone sharp as she looked down at the dark screen. "The comment Cercy made before they lifted off. What was it supposed to mean?"
[What about it, master?] The voice in the machine responded, its tone calm and unflinching, as it had been from the beginning.
Hecate paused, a subtle flicker of annoyance passing through her expression. "Is it true or just some crap?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. Her mind raced—Cercy, with her cryptic prophecies and knowing smiles, had planted seeds of doubt in her mind. Was it all just part of the game they were playing? Or was there something deeper to it?
[It is genuine, master. As I have already stated, anything and everything in here is real and true. All those abilities, all those people—they're all true.]
Hecate leaned back slightly, her mind processing the implications of that statement. Her heart raced as she thought about all the possibilities now laid before her. She had access to a machine that could alter the fabric of reality itself. She was in control, and nothing was beyond her reach.
"So you're telling me," Hecate said, her voice growing cold with the thrill of the newfound power, "if I, for example, wrote a concept, you would make it a reality?"
[Yes, master,] the voice replied promptly. [Anything you wish shall be done.]
Her eyes glinted with a devilish delight, the possibilities stretching before her like an endless expanse. The Cube was a realm of potential, one she could bend to her will. A smile played at the edges of her lips as she contemplated the power she held.
"And the rules I make," she continued, her voice now laced with intrigue, "will turn genuine? If I wanted gravity to get heavier, it would be? If I wanted water to burn, it will do so?"
[Yes, master. Any law or concept you wish to impose will be made real.]
Hecate's smirk deepened, her eyes flickering with anticipation. A dark, almost playful thought crept into her mind—if she could control the laws of reality here, why limit herself to what was currently possible? Why not experiment, test boundaries, and impose her will on everything?
The Cube could shape reality as she saw fit. Her ideas, no matter how outlandish or impossible, could become tangible. She could rewrite the world, bend it to her desires, create whatever she imagined. The power at her fingertips was almost overwhelming.
"Interesting," she whispered, the excitement in her voice impossible to disguise. "Now, I have to do something. I'm looking forward to it, actually." Her voice took on a dark, amused tone as she gazed at the shimmering screen in front of her, where reality itself seemed to bend and warp in response to her thoughts.
She felt her pulse quicken as her mind began to race. The endless possibilities unfolded before her, like a canvas ready for her to paint on with the broadest strokes of her imagination. She could remake anything—everything. And she wasn't about to waste such power on trivial matters. No, Hecate's vision was far more ambitious.
Her smile widened, and she began to think carefully, plotting her next move. With a flick of her fingers, she could alter the laws of magic, time, and space. The Cube could recreate dragons, summon storms, or change the very nature of the world inside of it. there are still some limitations such as the 24h rule or that anything created in the Cube cannot exist outside of it or the cooldown period, but still!.
It was time to see just how far the limits of her imagination—and the Cube—could stretch.
"save this 'project', it may be of use later" she muttered to herself, the excitement in her voice turning to a dangerous, calculated edge. She had no intentions of holding back now. The world, and perhaps even the very fabric of reality, was hers to command.
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>>>>>12days later
>>in a distant world far away from this one .
tales has it that a woman who would later be known by many names—the Goddess of War and vengeance the Valkyrie, the Mother of Dragons—first appeared on the Viking islands exactly one year ago. Her arrival was like a myth woven into the very fabric of the land. She came with the sound of thunder, carrying an aura of dread and majesty.
At first, no one knew her name, but the legend quickly spread. She emerged from the shadows of the mountains, surrounded by an army of dragons whose fiery breath lit up the night sky like a storm of death. The dragons, some of the most fearsome creatures the Vikings had ever seen, obeyed her as though she were their queen, flying overhead or roaring in the distance, their wings casting massive shadows over the land.
Despite the mighty beasts at her command, she herself seemed almost delicate—frail, even—compared to the sheer strength that emanated from her presence. Yet, she wielded a massive hammer, larger than any weapon the Vikings had ever seen. It was made of an unknown metal that glimmered like the stars and was engraved with runes of forgotten power. The hammer was both a weapon of destruction and a symbol of her unwavering resolve.
What baffled the onlookers the most, however, was her beauty. It was not merely physical; it was something that radiated from within her. She had an ethereal glow, an impossible perfection that left anyone who gazed upon her speechless. Some said she had the face of a goddess, with golden eyes that seemed to burn with the fire of a thousand battles, and dark hair that flowed like midnight itself. Others described her beauty as an illusion—a mere reflection of a woman who could bring the world to its knees.
She appeared in places of torment, where dragons were held captive, tortured, or mistreated. The Viking islands were known for their brutal treatment of these magnificent creatures, using them in cruel gladiatorial contests, enslaving them, and forcing them to fight each other for sport. The woman would descend from the sky like a dark harbinger, landing in these forsaken places with a silence that spoke volumes. Her presence alone was enough to make the torturers cower.
With a single word, the dragons would break free, their chains shattering in a burst of fire and fury. The woman wielded her hammer with unmatched skill, smiting anyone who dared raise a hand against the creatures she so fiercely protected. In moments, the enslavers would be scattered, their fortresses reduced to rubble beneath the hammer's might. The skies would fill with the roar of dragons, their captors vanishing as if they had never been.
Yet, the woman did not stop there. She also targeted the institutions of slavery that plagued the islands, where men and women were sold like cattle, and children lived in chains. She fought with a passion that was both brutal and righteous, bringing an end to the suffering wherever she went. To the oppressed, she was a savior; to the tyrants, she was a force of nature.
In time, the islanders came to call her by many names. Some believed she was a goddess sent to cleanse the world of its evil. Others thought she was the Valkyrie, the warrior-woman from Norse myth, sent to bring the souls of the fallen to Valhalla. But there were those who saw in her something more—a protector, a mother, a leader. They whispered that she was the Mother of Dragons, a title that struck fear into the hearts of the wicked and admiration into the hearts of those who dreamed of a world free from tyranny.
The woman's legend spread far beyond the Viking islands. In every village, tavern, and settlement, there were stories of her feats. Every account differed, but the essence remained the same: a woman who was more than mortal, more than a warrior, who walked in the wake of destruction, bringing with her the wrath of dragons.
She did not linger long in any place; her appearances were swift, her actions decisive. She was a shadow that flickered in and out of existence, a force of nature that could never be predicted. And though she vanished as quickly as she had arrived, the marks of her presence remained. The slave trade would falter wherever she appeared, the dragons' cries would echo long after the battles had ended, and the captors would retreat into the darkness, knowing they had faced something beyond their understanding.
What made her tale even more extraordinary was the countless witnesses who swore by it—sailors, traders, slaves, warriors, even nobles. She was everywhere, always where injustice took root, always where the weak were oppressed. Her influence spread like wildfire, and soon, her name was spoken in every corner of the Viking lands. Even those who had never seen her would offer hushed prayers for her arrival, hoping she would be the one to rid the world of the cruelty that gripped their lives.
Some came to revere her as a force of divine retribution, while others feared her wrath. Yet no one could deny that she had become a symbol of something much greater than a mere mortal—she was the embodiment of justice, vengeance, and the unyielding power of the dragons she commanded. Her tale would live on for generations, passed down through songs and stories, growing ever more grand as the years passed, until she became the stuff of myth, an eternal reminder that even the most fragile-seeming figure could hold the power to topple kingdoms and change the fate of the world.
---
As the traders, weary from their journey, dropped anchor and stepped onto the unfamiliar island, there was an air of curiosity that lingered among them. The winds were gentle, the sun warm, and the island felt untouched, almost sacred. The shores were untouched by human settlement, save for a few scattered stone markers, half-buried under the growth of time. As they ventured inland, they found themselves at the edge of a lush forest, the trees towering like guardians of some forgotten land.
The journey led them to a place unlike anything they had encountered before—a temple, massive in scale, yet serene and otherworldly. It stood on the island's highest point, reaching up as though it were trying to touch the heavens. The temple was constructed from white stone, so bright that it shimmered under the midday sun, as if it were crafted from the bones of the earth itself. The air was heavy with an inexplicable reverence, as if the ground they walked upon had been consecrated by some unseen force.
They stood at the entrance, uncertain. It felt wrong to disturb such a place, yet they were drawn to it. The silence was thick, but the hum of some hidden power seemed to vibrate through the very stones beneath their feet.
One of the traders, a burly man with a grizzled face named Thorvald, broke the silence first. "Do ye feel it?" he asked, his voice low and hesitant, almost a whisper. "The land... it does not feel like any I have known. It's as if we walk through time itself." His eyes, once filled with confidence, now held a mixture of trepidation and awe.
Another, a younger man named Erik, looked around, his eyes wide with wonder. "By Odin's beard… what is this place?" His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. He was too captivated, his gaze locked on the temple's entrance, where a faint light shimmered beyond. "A place so… pure. I've never seen anything like it."
A third man, Harald, the eldest of the group, stepped forward slowly, his steps reverent. He had heard stories, whispers among the traders and sailors who had traveled far beyond the known lands. "This... this is her land. It has to be." His voice faltered as the weight of his words settled in. "The woman of the dragons, the Valkyrie, the goddess of war." He looked toward his companions, his expression one of both fear and admiration. "This temple… it was built in her honor. She must have walked these halls."
As the group entered, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The air grew cooler, and the brightness of the temple only seemed to intensify. The floor was impossibly white, almost blinding, with intricate patterns carved into the stones—a labyrinth of symbols and runes that no one could easily decipher. They carefully avoided stepping on certain parts of the floor, as if to not disturb the sanctity of the space. Every movement felt sacrilegious, like they were intruding upon something sacred, yet they could not tear themselves away.
The silence enveloped them, broken only by the sound of their feet on the stone, but even that seemed muffled, as though the temple itself was swallowing their presence.
In the heart of the temple, a fountain stood—its waters flowing endlessly, clear and pristine, splashing into a basin that reflected the light above. The water cascaded from the jar of a statue that loomed above it. The statue depicted a woman, tall and powerful, her features beautiful beyond description, but it was the aura of strength that emanated from her that struck them most.
She was depicted as a goddess—a warrior, yet also a nurturer. One hand was raised, holding a massive hammer, its head resting gently on the ground, as if waiting for the call of battle. The other hand held a jar, from which water spilled endlessly, symbolizing life itself—continuity, the passing of time, perhaps even the never-ending flow of her power.
The traders fell into a hushed silence as they took in the scene. The beauty of the statue, combined with the sense of awe and terror it inspired, left them breathless.
Thorvald, his voice barely above a whisper, was the first to speak. "I... I don't know what to say. This is beyond anything I've ever seen. It's as if the gods themselves have walked this land."
Erik nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief. "It is said that she appeared like a storm, bringing destruction to those who wronged the dragons. But this... this is her realm. A place where she's not just a warrior, but a goddess."
Harald, whose mind had been racing with possibilities, finally spoke with certainty. "This is her land. It must be. No mortal could have created something like this." His eyes lingered on the statue, his voice trembling with the weight of his realization. "It will be known as Valkyrheim—the home of the Valkyrie, the land where the goddess of war reigns, where dragons are free, and where no evil shall dare to tread."
The name struck them all, and for a moment, the air felt even heavier with its significance. Valkyrheim—a place of power, of myth, of the Valkyrie who had become legend. It would be known far and wide, and its existence would change everything.
"The tales of the woman with the hammer and the dragons will be nothing compared to the reality of this place," Erik whispered, a shiver running down his spine. "No one will ever dare capture another dragon again. They will know that this land is protected by something far greater than us."
As the traders stood in the temple's heart, they couldn't help but feel the presence of something ancient and powerful watching over them. The fountain continued to flow, the statue of the goddess—warrior, protector, mother—stood silent, eternal, as the traders, forever changed by what they had witnessed, turned to leave.
In the years to come, the stories of Valkyrheim would spread across the seas, carried by those who had come to the temple and seen the beauty and power that lay within it. The island would become a symbol—a place where the goddess of war, the Valkyrie, would forever be remembered, where dragons would never again be chained, and where justice would reign over all. And in time, those who dared to exploit the innocent would come to learn that Valkyrheim was a land beyond their reach, a land where the goddess's power would never fade.