You arrive on the battlefield like a stone dropped into chaos—sudden, heavy, and already moving.

The sky above is the color of bruises, split by streaks of crimson and gold. Trees, older than Hogwarts itself, lie splintered like matchsticks, their branches still smoking. Screams tear through the air, distant and close at the same time. Explosions of light bloom between the shadows.

Your boots hit scorched earth. Your wand is already in your hand.

You scan the carnage through the eye slits of your gold mask. The enchantment on your hood holds firm, sealing every strand of hair, every curve of your face, into anonymity.

And then you see him.

Across the clearing, through the haze of smoke and falling ash, a figure emerges. Tall. Cloaked in black that drinks the firelight. He moves with a predator's economy—no wasted steps, no hesitation. His mask is black, intricate, etched with silver that glints like a cold star.

He cuts down an Auror with a single, fluid curse. The body crumples. He doesn't pause to watch it fall.

His head turns. Even through the mask, you feel his gaze lock onto you.

For a breath, the battlefield falls away. The screams, the explosions, the shouts—they dim to a distant hum.

Something cold and electric runs down your spine.

You know, with the certainty of a blade drawn across skin, that this fight will be different.

He raises his wand.

<Narrator>: The duel begins.