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Harry drifted into the void, consciousness scattered like leaves in a storm. There was no up or down, no sense of his own body—just floating in an endless expanse of nothingness. Then, cutting through the darkness, a voice reached him, clear as crystal yet laden with emotion:
"Godwyn, oh my Golden Child."
The words seemed to coalesce around him, taking shape and form until suddenly, Harry found himself standing in what could only be described as the most opulent bedchamber he had ever seen. The room was vast, easily larger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, with towering columns that stretched up into shadows so deep he couldn't make out the ceiling. Everything—from the intricate patterns carved into the walls to the very floor beneath his feet—seemed to be crafted from pure gold, catching and reflecting light from countless crystal sconces.
The air itself felt heavy with power, reminding Harry of the feeling he got when near Dumbledore, but different—more powerful. At the center of this magnificent chamber, a scene was unfolding that held him transfixed.
A man knelt before a woman seated on a ornate chaise lounge. The man's golden hair cascaded down his back like a river of sunlight, and even from his kneeling position, Harry could tell he was tall and powerfully built. His armor gleamed with the same golden hue as the room, but somehow even more brilliant, as if it was crafted from solidified sunlight.
The woman—Harry's breath caught in his throat when he properly looked at her. She was beautiful in a way that seemed almost painful to behold, like staring directly at the sun. Her features were perfect, too perfect to be human, with high cheekbones and lips curved in a slight smile. But it was her eyes that made Harry's skin crawl—they were ancient and calculating, holding within them a depth of power that made him instinctively want to shrink away and hide.
She regarded the kneeling man with a mixture of pride and curiosity. "Have you slain Fortissax, Godwyn?" Her voice carried the weight of command, though softened by obvious affection.
Harry edged closer, curious about this Fortissax they spoke of. He moved carefully at first, before realizing that neither figure seemed aware of his presence. It was like he was not even there, like a ghost they couldn't see.
The kneeling man—Godwyn, Harry remembered from the woman's earlier words—lifted his head to meet her gaze. His face was handsome and noble, with features that reminded Harry somewhat of the pictures he'd seen of Sirius in his youth before Azkaban had ravaged him. But where Sirius's face always held a hint of mischief, Godwyn's expression was earnest and serious.
"My Queen," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "Fortissax and I have come to an understanding."
The woman's perfect eyebrows arched slightly. "Elaborate," she commanded, though her tone remained gentle. "You know as well as I that dragons are untrustworthy creatures. Their very nature rebels against order."
Godwyn rose to his feet in a fluid motion that spoke of years of martial training. Standing, he was even more impressive, his presence filling the room almost as much as his mother's did. "The dragons can exist within the Golden Order," he stated with conviction. "They need not be our enemies."
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, and Harry felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. "Are you afraid to face their kind in combat, my son?"
Harry watched Godwyn carefully, seeing how the man's jaw clenched slightly at the accusation. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the distant sound of bells somewhere far below them. When Godwyn finally spoke, his voice was measured, careful, but with an underlying steel that surprised Harry.
"Mot—Queen Marika—is not the purpose of the Golden Order to bring peace and justice to the Lands Between?" He took a step forward. "We have fought for so long. The people of this realm have known nothing but war for generations. What is the point of all this fighting if it only breeds more conflict?"
Harry found himself nodding in agreement, though, of course, no one could see him. The words resonated with something deep inside him, remembering his own experiences with endless conflict—with Voldemort, with the Dursleys, with the constant battles that seemed to find him no matter what he did.
The woman—Queen Marika, Harry now knew—turned her head slightly, her gaze passing right through where Harry stood, making him shiver despite knowing she couldn't actually see him. Her perfect features softened into a smile that transformed her from merely beautiful to breathtaking, though Harry noticed it didn't quite reach those ancient, dangerous eyes.
"My dear golden child," she said, her voice rich with pride and something else Harry couldn't quite identify. "Such wisdom you show." She rose from her seat, moving with a grace that made Harry think of flowing water. "Very well. I shall consider this path you propose."
Godwyn's face lit up with hope, but Marika raised one elegant finger, cutting off any response he might have made.
"However," she continued, her smile taking on a sharper edge, "I will require proof of Fortissax's commitment to this... understanding. If he truly wishes for peace between our kinds, then surely he would be willing to share the secrets of his famous Crimson Lightning Spear with the Golden Order?"
Harry watched as the hope in Godwyn's expression faltered, though he quickly masked it. The young man's shoulders slumped slightly, almost imperceptibly, and Harry could see the internal struggle playing out across his features. Finally, Godwyn bowed his head in resignation.
"As you wish, my Queen."
But the conversation wasn't over. Godwyn straightened his shoulders, and Harry could see him gathering his courage for what came next. "Mother, what are your plans for the Kingdom of Raya Lucaria?"
The question hung in the air between them. Marika's smile changed then, becoming something that made Harry's skin crawl despite its beauty. It reminded him uncomfortably of how Aunt Petunia smiled when she was about to say something particularly nasty about the neighbors.
"What do you think we should do about them, my golden child?" She turned the question back on him, her voice smooth as honey but with an underlying edge. "Surely they should bow to the Golden Order like all the rest. Submit to the power of the Erdtree and the Elden Ring."
Harry noticed how Godwyn's jaw tightened at the mention of the Elden Ring, a fleeting expression of... was that doubt? Whatever it was, it vanished quickly beneath his composed exterior. "I believe I could speak with them. Through diplomacy—"
"Diplomacy?" The word fell from Marika's lips like a drop of poison.
Undeterred, Godwyn pressed on. "Yes. I have developed a plan to bring them into our Kingdom peacefully." He began to pace. "We need not resort to immediate violence. There are other ways—"
"Lady Rennala," Marika cut in, her voice sharp as a blade, "would rather fight for a thousand years than bow her head to the Golden Order." She rose from her seat, her movements liquid grace. "You know this to be true."
"And unlike the Giants," Godwyn countered, standing his ground, "those of Raya Lucaria cannot be so easily defeated. A war with them would not be measured in years, Mother, but in centuries." His voice grew stronger as he spoke, conviction evident in every word. "Their sorceries rival our incantations. Their academy houses secrets we can barely comprehend. Fighting them would drain our resources, cost countless lives—"
"Such is the reality of war," Marika stated simply, though Harry noticed her eyes had taken on an interested gleam.
"But it need not be our reality," Godwyn pressed. He took a step closer to his mother, and Harry found himself holding his breath, though he had no actual need to breathe in this vision. "There is another way to ensure they become part of our Golden Kingdom."
Marika tilted her head slightly, reminding Harry of a predatory bird eyeing potential prey. "Oh?"
"The best alliances," Godwyn said carefully, "are forged through marriage." He stood taller, his bearing every inch that of a crown prince. "As your heir and firstborn, I could marry Queen Rennala of the Full Moon."
The silence that followed was absolute. Harry watched as something shifted in Marika's expression—a subtle change that nonetheless transformed her entire countenance. It was as if Godwyn's words had unlocked something in her mind, sparked an idea that was rapidly taking shape behind those ancient, calculating eyes.
The look sent a chill down Harry's spine, reminding him uncomfortably of the times he'd seen similar expressions on Uncle Vernon's face just before he came up with a particularly unpleasant punishment. But where Vernon's schemes were petty and small-minded, Harry sensed that whatever was forming in Marika's mind would have far greater consequences.
"Do you agree with this?" Godwyn asked, his voice careful.
Marika waved her hand dismissively. "That is not your concern. Your duty lies with the dragons." Her tone brooked no argument. "We will address Raya Lucaria after that matter is settled. To start a second war while the first remains uncertain would be foolish, even for us."
Godwyn opened his mouth as if to press further but finally let out a sigh before adding. "I trust in your decisions, Queen Marika." he said with a defeated tone, but then something changed in his expression. His features softened, and for the first time during their exchange, he looked not like a prince or warrior but like a son concerned for his mother.
"Mother," he said gently, "how are you feeling?"
The transformation in Marika was immediate and startling. The dangerous queen seemed to melt away, replaced by something more human, more vulnerable. She approached her son with open arms, embracing him and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Harry felt a sharp pang in his chest watching them. The scene stirred memories he usually tried to keep buried—of standing in the Dursleys' kitchen, watching Aunt Petunia shower Dudley with affection while he remained invisible. Of countless nights lying awake, imagining what it would feel like to be held by his own mother. The Mirror of Erised flashed in his mind—his parents smiling, reaching for him, but always just beyond his touch.
"What happened?" Godwyn's quiet question pulled Harry from his memories, though it left him confused.
Marika's eyes turned cold for just a moment, like a cloud passing over the sun. "You must have heard by now."
Godwyn nodded, his golden hair falling forward slightly. "I was looking forward to having a brother or sister."
"Sometimes," Marika said, her voice distant, "life can be cruel."
He watched as Godwyn pulled away from his mother's embrace, turning toward the chamber's massive doors.
"They were buried at the Foot of the Erdtree," Marika called after him, her voice almost reluctant, as if the words were being drawn from her against her will. "You may visit them if you wish."
Godwyn turned back to face his mother one last time. His smile was gentle, tinged with sadness but genuine. "Thank you," he said simply, before passing through the doors and out of sight.
The golden chamber dissolved around Harry like mist in the morning sunlight, reforming into a different space entirely. He found himself in an enormous room that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. Women in flowing golden robes moved through the space like spirits, their lips moving in constant motion as they muttered what might have been prayers. Their words were too quiet for Harry to make out.
The room opened at its far end into a vast square chamber that made Harry's breath catch in his throat. The floor was a perfect grid of golden squares, each one equidistant from the others, gleaming in the soft light coming from an open roof; Harry could see the Erdtree above him; he had never been so close to it. As Harry drew closer, he realized with a start that they weren't just decorative squares—they were tombstones, each bearing names.
Before he could read any of the names, the robed women suddenly withdrew to the edges of the chamber like a receding tide. Through the main entrance strode Godwyn, but he looked markedly different from the previous vision. Gone was the golden armor, replaced by clothing as black as the depths of the Forbidden Forest. A cloak draped his shoulders, its material seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it, save for the tiny golden stars meticulously stitched across its surface. They twinkled as he moved, like real stars glimpsed through breaks in storm clouds.
Godwyn's steps were measured and deliberate as he made his way through the grid of golden tombstones. He stopped before two squares that Harry noticed were smaller than the others, kneeling before them with grace. His lips moved in what Harry recognized as an incantation, though no sound reached his ears. A delicate golden tree sprouted and grew from the floor between the tombstones, its light illuminating the names carved in the stone.
"Morgott and Mohg," Godwyn spoke, his voice heavy with remorse. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you were born." His hand reached out to touch one of the tombstones, fingers tracing the letters with gentle reverence. "I swear to you both, I will visit every chance I get. You will not be forgotten."
Harry's chest tightened as understanding dawned. These were the siblings Godwyn had mentioned to Queen Marika—children who had never had the chance to grow up, just as he had never known his own parents. His mind raced with questions about what could have claimed their lives so early, but before he could ponder further, the scene began to dissolve once more.
This time, however, Harry didn't find himself in another room or chamber. Instead, he floated in an endless void of pure darkness. It reminded him of being in the Chamber of Secrets after Fawkes had destroyed the basilisk's eyes, that absolute darkness that seemed to press against his eyeballs.
"Harry Potter."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Before him materialized a figure he recognized—Godwyn—but changed in ways that made Harry's skin crawl. Dark veins spread across his chest and back like a spiderweb of corruption. His eyes, once bright and determined, were now bottomless pools of darkness.
Melina's words echoed in Harry's memory: "Godwyn The Golden was the first Demigod to fall in the Night of the Black Knives." Looking at the corrupted form before him, Harry understood with terrible clarity what that meant.
"How are you here?" Harry managed to ask, his voice sounding strange in the void. "What is this place?"
"You are in the Deathbed Dream," Godwyn's voice echoed in the void, somehow both distant and intimately close.
"The what?" Harry swallowed hard, fighting down his rising panic. "How do I leave?"
A sound escaped Godwyn that might have been a laugh, though it held no mirth. "I, too, wish to leave this place. But exodus demands sacrifice."
"Sacrifice?" Harry's voice cracked on the word.
Godwyn's dark eyes fixed on him with terrible intensity. "That night, they slew my soul but left my body intact. I was denied True Death." His hand traced the corruption spreading across his chest. "Instead, my body became death itself. A sickness that spreads across the lands, infecting all it touches." His voice grew heavy with sorrow. "Even Fortissax, my dear friend, succumbed to the corruption when he tried to save me."
A horrible thought struck Harry. "Does this mean... am I dead?"
Dread filled him like ice water in his veins as faces flashed through his mind: Melina's gentle smile, Roderika's determined expression, Captain Artan's weathered face. Then came the faces from his own world—Hermione's concerned eyes, Ron's lopsided grin, Sirius's bark-like laugh. The thought of never seeing them again made his chest constrict painfully.
"You are not like other Tarnished," Godwyn said, his voice gentle despite its otherworldly resonance. "You cannot be brought back through grace. Your one life is all you possess."
"I can't stay here," Harry's voice rose with desperation. "My friends—Godrick will butcher them! And back home..." He thought of Voldemort, of the growing darkness Melina had warned him about. "They need me. I don't want to die. I can't die."
Godwyn watched him in silence for a long moment, the darkness around them seeming to deepen. "You are not truly dead," he finally said. "At least, not in the way you think."
"What do you mean?"
"Something within you anchors your soul to your body." Godwyn's corrupted form shifted slightly. "But though you live, you cannot leave this Deathbed Dream without sacrifice."
Harry's heart hammered in his chest. "What do I need to do?"
In response, Godwyn reached to his side and drew forth a sword unlike any Harry had seen before. Its blade was dark as night, but its tip gleamed with a golden light that seemed to push back the surrounding darkness. He extended it toward Harry, hilt first.
Harry took it hesitantly, feeling its strange weight in his hands. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
Without a word, Godwyn knelt before him, reaching up to pull aside what remained of his clothing. There, embedded in his chest, Harry saw a strange mark that made his scar prickle uncomfortably. It looked like half of a dark ring, as if someone had taken a complete circle and torn it in two. From its top spread tiny branches like a twisted tree, all of it seeming to pulse with that same corrupt energy that flowed through Godwyn's veins.
"What is that?" Harry asked, though part of him dreaded the answer.
"This is my Cursemark of Death—half of it." Godwyn's voice grew softer, almost peaceful. "If you wish to leave this place, you must take it. But such a thing can only be done..." He raised his dark eyes to meet Harry's. "After the holder is dead."
The sword suddenly felt much heavier in Harry's hands. "You want me to..."
"To kill what remains of me here," Godwyn confirmed.
Harry's hands trembled. "But you're already..."
"What I am now is neither living nor dead," Godwyn interrupted. "I am corruption given form, a plague upon the lands I once sought to protect." His voice grew urgent.
The weight of the decision pressed down on Harry like a physical force. He thought of all the death he'd already encountered in his young life—his parents, Quirrell, the basilisk, the shadow of Tom Riddle. But this was different. This was being asked to actively take a life, even if that life was already something twisted and wrong.
"Why me?" Harry managed to ask.
"Because you understand," Godwyn said simply. "You know what it means to sacrifice for others. To bear burdens you never asked for." A sad smile crossed his corrupted features. "And because you carry within you something that allows you to survive here, where others would be lost to death's embrace."
Harry looked down at the golden-tipped sword, then back at the kneeling figure before him. The darkness around them seemed to pulse in time with his racing thoughts. He thought of his friends waiting for him, of the battles yet to come, of the corruption Godwyn said was spreading across the lands.
"Will it... will it hurt?"
Godwyn's smile grew gentler, reminding Harry of the noble figure he'd seen in the earlier vision. "No more than I already hurt."
Harry tightened his grip on the sword's hilt, feeling its weight, its purpose. The golden tip caught what little light existed in this void, reminding him of the grace magic Melina had taught him to wield.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, raising the blade.
The sword felt impossibly heavy as Harry positioned it before Godwyn's chest, right where that strange half-rune pulsed with dark energy. He thought of his parents, of their sacrifice to save him. Of Godwyn's attempt to make peace with the dragons. Of all the choices that led both of them to this moment in the void.
"Wait," Godwyn spoke softly. "You should understand—killing me here will grant you half of the Cursemark of Death, but it will not give me True Death. My body still lives, spreading corruption across the lands. Only when that vessel is slain with Destined Death can I finally rest."
Harry lowered the sword slightly. "Then why..."
"Because you will need this power for what's to come." Godwyn's dark eyes fixed on Harry's. "Just as you witnessed my past with my mother, I have seen yours, Harry Potter. The cupboard under the stairs. The loneliness. The constant battle for survival."
Harry's grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles going white. It was one thing to live through those memories—another entirely to know someone else had witnessed them.
"No child should endure what you have endured," Godwyn continued, his voice gentle despite its otherworldly resonance. "And yet, I have never encountered someone as selfless as you. You might be exactly what the Lands Between needs."
Harry shook his head violently. "I'm not... I'm not strong enough to change anything. I couldn't even protect my friends from falling in Stormveil."
"All people fall, Harry Potter. Every single one." Godwyn's corrupted features softened somehow. "Falling does not mark you as a failure—it only shows that you are human. Staying down... that is what marks you as a failure."
The words struck Harry like a physical blow, reminding him of all the times he'd gotten back up: after Quirrell, after the basilisk, after the Dementors.
"We could have been good friends, you and I, if things were different," Godwyn mused. Then his voice grew stronger, more certain. "Remember this, Harry Potter: true strength lies not in never feeling fear, but in choosing to act despite it. In choosing to love despite loss, to hope despite darkness, to fight despite knowing you might fail."
Harry felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, though in this strange void he wasn't sure if they were real or just a memory of tears.
Godwyn closed his eyes. "Free my friend Fortissax from the corruption that binds him. Find my body and grant it True Death with Destined Death. And perhaps..." A small smile crossed his lips. "Perhaps you can bring to the Lands Between what I failed to achieve: peace and justice."
The sword no longer felt heavy in Harry's hands—instead, it felt like purpose, like destiny.
"I will," Harry promised, raising the blade once more. "I'll try to make it quick."
"Thank you," Godwyn whispered.
The blade pierced Godwyn's chest with surprising ease. For a moment, everything was still—then an explosion of dark, otherworldly magic burst from the wound. The force of it nearly knocked Harry backwards. He watched, transfixed, as Godwyn's form began to dissolve, breaking apart like ash in a strong wind. The last thing Harry saw was a gentle smile on the prince's face before he disappeared entirely.
The dark magic didn't dissipate. Instead, it swirled and coalesced into a single point in the void, forming into the half-ring Harry had seen embedded in Godwyn's chest—the Cursemark of Death. It hung in the air before him, pulsing with an energy that made his scar prickle uncomfortably.
Slowly, Harry extended his hand toward it. The moment his fingers made contact, agony unlike anything he'd ever known exploded through his body. He screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed in the endless void. The pain in his chest felt like molten metal being poured directly into his flesh. Even the worst burning of his scar—even when Voldemort had been near—paled in comparison to this torture.
Harry collapsed, rolling on the ground as the pain intensified. It felt as if something was literally carving into his flesh. He thrashed and screamed until his throat was raw, but there was no escape from the agony. Time lost all meaning—it could have been minutes or hours or days.
When the pain finally began to subside, Harry lay there gasping, his entire body drenched in sweat. Using what little strength remained, he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at his chest. His shirt was smoking, burned in a precise pattern that revealed what lay beneath—the same half-ring now permanently carved into his flesh, its dark branches extending upward like a twisted tree.
Movement caught his eye, and Harry realized with a start that he could see through his hands. His body was becoming transparent, fading away like a photograph left in strong sunlight. The void around him grew darker, consuming him completely.
Then, suddenly, light.
But he wasn't back in the Lands Between as he expected. Instead, he found himself looking up at a face he'd only ever seen in photographs and in the Mirror of Erised—a kind, beautiful face framed by deep red hair.
Tears welled in Harry's eyes. "Mom," he whispered with desperate longing, but Lily Potter didn't react to his voice. Instead, she was speaking in soft, gentle tones, singing a lullaby he somehow knew despite never having heard it before.
Her voice made his heart swell with joy so pure it was almost painful. She smiled down at him—that smile he'd dreamed of seeing his whole life—and leaned down to kiss both his cheeks.
"I love you, my little Harry."
The words echoed in his mind as reality reasserted itself, and his mother's beloved face faded away like morning mist. Harry's eyes snapped open to whatever awaited him in the waking world, but the warmth of those phantom kisses lingered on his cheeks, and his mother's voice echoed in his heart.
He was awake, truly awake now.
He stood up, his legs wobbly as he tried to steady himself, looking around, he grew confused, he was standing on top of a strange face, it barely resembled a human face, but it looked like one, and it was as dark as the void he had seen. Before Harry could remind himself that he could not stay here, he saw movement near him. He turned and saw someone leaning against the wall. It was Ranni the Witch.
"Good to meet you again, Harry Potter."
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