The corridor rang with uneasy silence after the last Craven Skulker fell. Smoke curled from its still‑warm carcass, the smell of singed fur clawing at their nostrils.
Adrian Greyford's grin of triumph dissolved as he stared at his wand.
"I… I can't conjure another," he panted, shoulders slumping. "That was it."
A ripple of alarm ran through the senior line. The ridiculous peacock is spent.
Behind him, freckled Elaine Holcomb bit her lip; Peter Nott's knuckles whitened on the haft of his wand; Ava Derek exchanged a terrified glance with the others.
And then all eyes flicked to Richard, whose obsidian daggers rested on his hands…
If it wasn't for me, that poor guy would have died, Richard noted with a sigh.
He stepped forward, breathing steadily. "Right," he said quietly, voice cutting through the tension. "Clearly, we need another plan."
A hush fell.
