Tuesday, April 10th, 2009 — Ongoing
Location: Gringotts Portal Axis and the Bloodied Void of Mistakes
Tagline: You don't touch a Blood Companion's charge unless you're ready to die screaming.
The Wild didn't plan for blood-companions.
They planned for guards, hired muscle, half-trained Aurors with weak knees and a sense of procedural justice. They had runes for confusion, bindings for omega suppression, a frankly excessive number of monologues prepared in three languages.
But they didn't plan for Redcaps.
Specifically not these Redcaps. Not bonded ones. Not the Weeping Willow bloodline old enough to be myth, lethal enough to be policy violations.
Because Redcaps don't come with warnings.
They are the warnings.
The moment Seraphina disappeared, something ancient inside Raphael snapped its leash and stood up politely.
He moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
He moved like a consequence.
Not like a person. Like a prayer reversed. Like a god's final draft of vengeance given shape.
He raised his hand.
And the world obeyed.
This wasn't magic.
It wasn't even rage.
This was ritual inheritance the kind of power not taught but engraved onto your marrow at birth. The kind of call that came from every ancestor whispering at once, Protect what is yours. Destroy what touches her.
Twin daggers slipped from his sleeves like sighs made solid. Black. Elegant. Blood-bound. They hissed with heat as they met air, etched with script banned in seven Realms and one surprisingly sensitive realmlet with no name but a lot of paperwork.
Daggers that once sat behind glass in Gringotts' historical vault display until they made two interns cry and one run screaming into a pond.
Now?
They sang.
Blood Fang didn't wait for ceremony.
Mid-shift. Runes glowing like warpaint. His claws were longer than politeness allowed and his jaw hung open in a snarl that didn't end with teeth it ended with prophecy.
The first cultist lunged at him. Probably had a plan.
Blood Fang took his throat with one paw and whispered, "You chose wrong," in Old Nightmare. Then he twisted. And dropped him like yesterday's marriage proposal.
A second ran at Raphael, wand raised.
The wand split in half.
So did his arm.
So did his plans.
The others?
They tried to chant.
Tried to rally.
One tried to scream "for the bloodline!" but got "for the blo " out before being introduced to the sharp end of a future obituary.
A third cultist attempted to run.
Raphael let him. For a moment.
Then snapped his fingers.
A blade folded out of nowhere and embedded in the runner's back like a wedding invitation from Hell.
The Axis shimmered, blurred mist curling inward, reality distorting as the Bloodied Veil was summoned.
Not formally. Not by rite.
By rage.
The ancestral cloak of the Nightmare Court dropped onto the portal space like a silken guillotine. Those with sense backed up.
Those without?
Screamed.
Too late.
Together, Raphael and Blood Fang danced.
It was a waltz. A tragedy. A storm written in arterial punctuation.
The cultists tried to chant again. Tried to grab the carpet. Tried to pretend this was still their moment.
But they were moving through a ballet choreographed by legacy and death.
And in the audience?
The 130 pretended not to stare.
Pretended not to flinch.
Pretended their creature blood didn't tingle at the edge of the Veil and whisper, That could be you.
The 84 Families?
Didn't pretend.
They watched with stone faces and boiling blood. Not cheering. Not interfering.
But marking names.
The radicals had outed themselves. And the rest of their little cult-bred sycophants?
Would follow soon.
Back in the rolled rug of shame and poor planning, Seraphina groaned.
Her magic caged. Her limbs heavy.
But her instincts were screaming.
She stirred.
Eyes fluttered.
Her senses swam back just enough to recognize the soft leather of Raphael's coat—wrapped tight around her like a battlefield oath.
She rested against his chest. His breath was calm. His heartbeat steady.
Which, ironically, meant he was still in murder mode.
"Hi," she rasped.
"You're safe," he said.
Not reassurance.
Declaration.
"I missed the whole thing, didn't I?"
"You'll get your own," he replied. "Survive now. Conquer later."
She blinked. "You're bleeding."
He didn't flinch. "Not mine."
The floor around them looked like a mural of failure.
Limbs, robes, scorch marks. Magic stains that couldn't be cleaned by mortal means. One cultist had been politely folded in half. Another was in pieces that didn't make sense anatomically. One had attempted to crawl toward a wand and ended up with it embedded in his eye. Elegantly.
Blood Fang sat on a body like a lounging king, chewing a boot. Maybe.
The goblins had formed a respectful semicircle. One handed out popcorn.
Another quietly hung a sign:
> "THIS WAS AN AUTHORIZED DEFENSE RESPONSE. HEXPLOT RATING ADJUSTED: +1"
Then?
The Ministry owl arrived.
Because of course it did.
It flopped dramatically through the mist like it regretted everything about its birth.
It dropped a cream envelope with too much perfume, too little soul.
Raphael caught it midair.
Opened it. Read aloud.
> "You are hereby fined 30,000 Denarii for excessive public display of Blood Companion defense instincts, resulting in public panic and minor structural damage.
Additional charges include:
Property staining
Emotional inconvenience to bystanders
One (1) complaint filed for 'indecent composure while shirtless'"
Seraphina blinked.
"You got fined… because someone else kidnapped me?"
"They said he scared the 130," Blood Fang added helpfully.
"They should be scared. They should run screaming into the sea."
Seraphina sat up. Groaned. "I'm going to get stronger. Strong enough they can't fine me for my own rescue."
"Or I can kill them," Raphael said mildly.
She shook her head. "No, no. Not yet. We'll invoice them later."
This wasn't a one-time attack.
This was a broadcast.
The Wild had made their move. Sloppy. Loud. Early.
The Womb Club was starting to breathe.
But so were the heirs.
And the queens.
And their kings.
And the companion-blessed monsters who had been waiting for a reason to be unleashed.
Today?
A rug.
Tomorrow?
A reckoning.