Book 3

 The Breaking Point

Deep beneath the ancient city of Londinium, in the labyrinthine tunnels that had once been Roman catacombs, Marcus Platorius struggled to maintain the magical barrier that shielded the scattered remnants of Muggle and wizard refugees. His face was pale, sweat dripping from his brow as he stood at the center of an ancient ritual circle etched into the cold stone floor.

The barrier was a shimmering dome of golden light, extending for miles above the labyrinth, invisible to those outside but strong enough to keep Voldemort’s forces at bay. At least, it had been.

Now, cracks spiderwebbed through its surface, and the strain of expanding the shield to cover Gaul as well as Britannia was evident. Platorius gritted his teeth, his hands trembling as he poured every ounce of his magic into holding it together.

Behind him, an aide approached hesitantly, carrying a scroll with fresh reports. “Praetor Platorius,” the young man stammered, “we’ve received word that the forces in Gaul are breaching the outer perimeter. They’re pressing against the shield harder than ever before.”

Platorius didn’t look up, his focus entirely on the flickering barrier. “I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I can feel it.”

The aide hesitated. “And the Brittanian front… it’s holding for now, but—”

“‘For now’ isn’t good enough,” Platorius snapped, his frustration boiling over. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Send word to the commanders. They are to fortify the weak points and prepare for a full-scale assault. If we lose the labyrinth, we lose everything.”

---

A Fractured Line

In the lower tunnels, the refugees huddled together in makeshift camps, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion. The labyrinth had become a sanctuary, but it was no paradise. Food and water were scarce, and the oppressive darkness weighed heavily on everyone.

Among them was a young girl clutching a tattered doll, her wide eyes fixed on the golden light above. Her mother tried to comfort her, whispering assurances that the barrier would hold. But even the adults were beginning to doubt.

A group of resistance fighters passed by, their armor dented and their expressions grim. They had been holding the line at the Gaulish front, and their reports only fueled the growing sense of despair.

“The praetor can’t keep this up,” one of them muttered. “We’re stretched too thin. If reinforcements don’t come soon, we’re finished.”

Another soldier, older and more seasoned, shook his head. “Reinforcements? From where? The Balkans? Illyria’s just starting to rebuild. We’re on our own.”

---

Platorius’s Gambit

Back at the ritual circle, Platorius fell to one knee, his strength faltering. He pressed his hand against the ground, channeling more magic into the barrier. The cracks flickered, shrinking momentarily before expanding again.

He knew this couldn’t last. The combined strain of protecting both Britannia and Gaul was more than even he could handle. Yet surrender was not an option.

“I need more power,” he murmured to himself. His mind raced through possibilities, each more dangerous than the last. Finally, he looked to his aide. “Bring me the relics.”

The aide’s eyes widened. “The relics? But Praetor, the council forbade their use. They said—”

“The council isn’t here,” Platorius snapped, his voice like iron. “And if they were, I’d remind them that desperate times call for desperate measures. Bring me the relics.”

The aide hesitated for only a moment before rushing off. Platorius slumped back, breathing heavily. The relics were powerful, ancient artifacts tied to the Roman gods. They could bolster his magic, but at a cost.

---

The Relics Unleashed

Minutes later, the aide returned, carrying a small chest adorned with intricate carvings. Platorius opened it with trembling hands, revealing three artifacts: a silver helm, a golden bracer, and an onyx amulet.

Each item pulsed with an otherworldly energy, and as Platorius reached for the bracer, he felt the air around him grow heavy. He hesitated, knowing that using even one of the relics could drain him to the brink of death—or worse.

But there was no other choice.

Slipping the bracer onto his wrist, he felt a surge of power course through him. His vision blurred, and his muscles burned, but the cracks in the barrier began to mend, the golden light shining brighter than before.

The refugees below gasped as the oppressive darkness lifted slightly. Hope flickered among them, fragile but alive.

Yet Platorius felt no relief. The relic’s power came with whispers, ancient voices filling his mind with promises and warnings. His connection to the barrier was stronger, but his connection to himself was slipping.

---

The Cost of Sacrifice

Hours later, Platorius collapsed against the altar, the bracer glowing faintly on his wrist. The barrier held—for now—but his strength was nearly gone. The whispers of the relics were louder now, their demands impossible to ignore.

As he struggled to his feet, the aide returned with fresh reports. “Praetor, the front in Gaul is stabilizing, but Britannia’s forces are regrouping for another push. We don’t have much time.”

Platorius nodded weakly. “Send word to Walker Carroll. Tell him… tell him the labyrinth won’t hold much longer. If he’s coming, he needs to come now.”

The aide hesitated. “Do you think he can make a difference?”

Platorius’s green-tinged gaze hardened. “If anyone can, it’s him. But we need more than a hero—we need a miracle.”

As the aide rushed off, Platorius turned his eyes back to the barrier. It shimmered steadily for now, but he knew the cracks would return. The relic on his wrist pulsed, a grim reminder of the price he was paying.

And he knew that the breaking point was near.

The Tale of the Second Bulgar Slayer

The Great Hall of Hogwarts, now nestled in the sunlit hills of Southern Italy, was filled with the murmur of students. The long tables overflowed with delicacies of Roman inspiration—roasted meats, olives, and honey-soaked pastries. Above, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with stars, casting an ethereal glow on the gathered crowd.

At the head table, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall raised a hand, and the hall quieted. A herald clad in crimson and gold rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, bearing the insignia of Caesar Romulus: the laurel and sword of empire.

“Friends of Hogwarts,” the herald began, his voice deep and commanding. “Tonight, I recount a tale of courage, strategy, and the unyielding will of young Caesar Walker Carroll. A tale of his triumph in Illyria and Bulgaria, one that echoes the legacy of Basil the Bulgar Slayer, with a new twist: the rise of a Cavalry Commander whose name shall be etched in the annals of Rome forever—Arthur Morgan.”

---

The Campaign in Illyria and Bulgaria

“When Caesar Walker Carroll set out to reunite the provinces of Illyria, he understood that victory would not come from brute force alone. The lands of Illyria and Bulgaria were rugged, the people proud and resistant to foreign rule.

“At his side stood his trusted generals: Niko and Roman Bellic, veterans of the Serbian conflicts; and Arthur Morgan, a master tactician and horseman whose loyalty to Walker and the empire was unmatched. Together, they forged a plan to bring the rebellious provinces to heel.”

The herald gestured dramatically. “First, Albania fell, its leaders wisely choosing diplomacy over bloodshed. Then came Greece, whose annexation was a triumph of politics and culture, as they welcomed Roman governance to restore the golden age of their people. But Bulgaria…” He paused, his expression darkening. “Bulgaria resisted.”

---

Arthur Morgan’s Role

“The Bulgarian army was vast, their leaders bold. They allied with dark wizards and rogue magical creatures, believing their lands to be impenetrable. But they underestimated the brilliance of Caesar and his commanders.

“Arthur Morgan led the Roman cavalry, a unit feared across the empire. His horsemen struck like lightning, their charge breaking the Bulgarian flanks at every turn. It was Morgan who devised the trap that sealed the fate of the Bulgarian army. With Niko and Roman Bellic commanding the Praetorians in the front, Morgan and his cavalry swept in from behind, cutting off their retreat.”

The students in the Great Hall hung on every word.

“It was said that Arthur fought as if guided by Mars himself. When the Bulgarian wizards unleashed their curses, he countered with enchanted lances. When the enemy summoned magical beasts, he led his riders in daring charges, felling even the fiercest of monsters. His bravery inspired the troops, and his tactics ensured victory.”

---

The Blinding

The herald’s tone grew somber. “After the battle, 15,000 Bulgarian soldiers were captured. Caesar Walker Carroll, though young, knew that to ensure peace, a lesson had to be taught. Invoking the legacy of Basil II, he ordered the soldiers blinded, sparing one man in every hundred to lead the rest home. It was Arthur Morgan who oversaw the grim task, ensuring it was carried out with precision.”

The hall fell silent.

“Though the act was brutal, it brought stability to the region. The sightless march of the Bulgarians sent a message to all who would challenge Rome: rebellion would not be tolerated.”

---

Whispers in the Hall

As the herald concluded, murmurs spread through the hall.

“That’s barbaric,” Hermione Granger whispered to Harry Potter at the Gryffindor table, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“It’s war,” Harry said quietly, though his expression was troubled. “Walker’s trying to rebuild Rome, but he’s not leaving much room for mercy.”

From the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood tilted her head. “I think Arthur Morgan sounds fascinating,” she said dreamily. “A cowboy on horseback, riding for Rome.”

Fred and George Weasley exchanged uneasy glances, their usual humor absent. Ginny Weasley, seated beside them, stared at her plate, lost in thought. “Poor Ron,” she murmured, thinking of her brother’s tragic death in first year.

---

Walker’s Arrival

The conversation was cut short as the great doors of the hall swung open. All eyes turned as Walker Carroll entered, flanked by his Praetorian Guard. At his side was Arthur Morgan, his cavalry commander, still dressed in his campaign attire: a leather tunic, dusty boots, and a weathered cloak. Niko and Roman Bellic marched behind them, their faces as stoic as ever.

Walker’s green eyes gleamed with a mixture of determination and weariness. The Sword of Romulus hung at his side, its jeweled hilt catching the light.

Headmistress McGonagall rose to greet him. “Young Caesar,” she said, her voice steady. “Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

Walker inclined his head. “Thank you, Headmistress. It is good to return.”

He turned to address the hall. “The tale you’ve just heard is not one of glory, but of necessity. The choices we face in war are seldom kind. But know this: everything I do, I do for the future. For a world where Rome stands united, and peace prevails.”

Arthur Morgan stepped forward, his drawl cutting through the silence. “We ain’t proud of what we had to do. But we don’t regret it, neither. Sometimes, peace comes at a price.”

The hall erupted in a mixture of applause and uneasy murmurs. Hermione’s parents, visiting for the week, exchanged horrified looks. Harry watched Walker with a conflicted gaze, torn between admiration and doubt.

As Walker and his commanders took their seats, the weight of their actions lingered, a reminder of the cost of power and the burden of leadership.

The Hand of the Caesar

In the heart of Hogwarts, now reimagined as a Roman stronghold in Southern Italy, Walker Carroll convened with his most trusted counselor—Albus Dumbledore, the Hand of the Caesar. The private chamber, designed for such strategic meetings, bore symbols of Rome's eternal legacy alongside Hogwarts' magical heritage. A massive, enchanted map dominated the center of the room, its shifting borders reflecting the ever-changing dynamics of Walker’s empire.

Dumbledore stood at the far end of the room, his silver beard cascading down his robes as he gazed out the window at the Italian countryside. When Walker entered, his presence commanded immediate attention. The young Caesar, clad in imperial armor with a crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, carried the weight of a thousand decisions in his piercing green eyes.

“Bulgaria is subdued, but not without its scars,” Dumbledore began, turning to face Walker. His voice was calm, though tinged with concern. “The story of the blinded soldiers has traveled faster than even your legions. Some call you a liberator; others... less kind names.”

Walker moved to the map, tracing a finger over the newly drawn boundaries of his empire. “Rome was built on strength and unity,” he said, his voice steady. “The Bulgar rebellion was a threat to both. What I did was a message—to the provinces and to the world. Rome does not falter.”

---

Weighing the Costs

Dumbledore approached the map, his eyes scanning the regions now under Roman control. “Diplomacy brought Greece and Albania into the fold. That was a triumph of wit over bloodshed. But Bulgaria will not forget. Blind armies leave bitter memories.”

Walker turned to face him. “Memories can be softened by prosperity. Roads, aqueducts, trade—these will heal their wounds in time. What matters now is securing Illyria and reinforcing Platorius in Britannia.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Platorius... A capable man, but even he is stretched thin. Holding the barrier in Britannia was already a Herculean effort. Now with Gaul under Voldemort’s shadow, he is at his limit.”

Walker clenched his fists. “I will not let Britannia and Gaul fall. Voldemort’s dominion ends where Rome’s begins. I’ll march north if I must.”

Dumbledore’s expression darkened. “A bold move, but it would leave Southern Italy exposed. Your enemies are not only on the front lines, Walker. Many here would see you fail.”

---

The Unseen Hand

Walker’s gaze hardened. “Let them try. Rome has endured for a thousand years; it will endure a thousand more. My will is forged in fire, and my allies are strong.”

Dumbledore stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your allies are loyal, but loyalty can waver under pressure. Remember, Caesar, even the mightiest empires crumble from within if their foundations are not tended.”

Walker studied the map again, his mind racing with possibilities. “Then I’ll ensure the foundation is unshakable. Call Arthur Morgan to me—I’ll need his cavalry to reinforce Illyria. And summon the Bellics. Niko and Roman are wasted on guard duty. It’s time they put their skills to use on the battlefield.”

Dumbledore nodded, his expression unreadable. “As you wish, Caesar. But tread carefully. The world is watching, and not all eyes are friendly.”

As Walker dismissed him, his thoughts turned to the task ahead. The road to a reunited Rome would be paved with challenges, but he was determined to see it through. The empire's destiny rested in his hands, and he would not let it slip through his fingers.