The final chime of the castle bell echoed across the grounds like the toll of fate.
Above the castle, the radiant spell seal pulsed once—twice—before erupting in a silent explosion of light. The sky split open in a spiral of white flame and ancient magic.
From within the glowing rift, a colossal chariot emerged.
A gasp rippled through the students as the massive construct descended from the heavens like a judgment from the gods. Forged of blackened steel laced with crimson enchantments, the chariot's sides bore glowing runes and ancient sigils — moving, shifting, alive with meaning. Arcs of magic trailed behind its wheels as it hovered effortlessly through the sky, casting an enormous shadow over the castle below.
Pulling it were two beasts of legend.
On the left was Brightstar — a majestic unicorn of impossible size and grace. Its coat shimmered like polished silver under sunlight, and its long mane cascaded like strands of woven moonlight. Its most striking feature was its horn — a spiraled lance of pure crystal light that pulsed with radiant energy. There were no wings. It didn't need them. Every step across the sky sent waves of magic rolling beneath its hooves. Its presence was serene but undeniably powerful, a creature of nobility, not wrath.
On the right was Catastros — but not as any war horse known to man.
This was a creature forged in battle and darkness. Towering and muscular, its obsidian-black frame was wrapped in jagged dragon-like scales. Its hooves struck the air with thunderous force, ripples of kinetic magic bursting with every motion. Steam billowed from its flared nostrils, and its eyes burned with molten crimson light. Though it bore no wings or horns, it radiated raw, untamed power — like a dragon chained into a warhorse's form, its fury barely held in check.
Together, they pulled the chariot in a wide arc above the school — once over the towers, then a deep swoop above the Forbidden Forest, trees bending as their magic passed overhead. Birds fled. Creatures stilled. The earth itself seemed to shudder beneath them.
And standing atop that floating chariot...
The Titan.
Towering, armored, and terrible — his form shimmered between the veil of legend and reality.
Clad in armor of crimson and obsidian, his figure was unmistakably knight-like, yet inhumanly large. His body bore the mark of dragons — from the roaring heads mounted on his pauldrons to the scaled textures etched across his gauntlets and greaves. His helmet, sharp and angular, featured a dragon's crest — its visor sloped like a snarling snout, two glowing slits revealing burning crimson light beneath.
The rune emblazoned on his chest glowed with pulsing life, echoing with deep, ancient power. A long, tattered cape flowed behind him, red as fresh blood and blackened at the edges, like it had trailed through fire and war.
No words. No sound.
The titan simply stood, a sentinel of impossible magic, riding high above a world that did not know what it was witnessing.
The chariot slowly descended, its wheels never touching ground. It hovered just above the stone courtyard, directly in front of the gathered students and faculty.
Silence fell.
The entire school — hundreds of students, professors, ghosts — stood frozen. Not one dared to move.
Some students clutched at each other. Some simply stared, lips parted, breath caught in their throats.
McGonagall had her wand drawn, planted squarely before a group of younger Gryffindors. Her hand trembled just slightly.
Snape stepped forward, shield-like, wand raised, eyes narrowed in cold suspicion.
Sprout held firm near the Hufflepuffs, her lips a tight line.
Even Trelawney — often aloof — had lowered her spectacles, eyes uncharacteristically alert.
Professor Flitwick's wand hand twitched — not out of fear, but recognition. "This magic… it predates Hogwarts…"
Only Dumbledore remained still, his hands folded in front of him, his gaze sharp and thoughtful.
"Beyond my reach," he whispered, almost too quietly to hear. "And beyond my control."
The Titan on the chariot made no movement. His glowing red eyes passed slowly across the crowd — not with malice, but with judgment. Ancient. Watchful. As if weighing their worth.
He had come not to attack.
But to witness.
And the world would not be the same afterward.