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Your orders have been carried out.

Amosta turned his gaze once more to the frail old man by the bedside.

The once-ambitious revolutionary, one of the most formidable wizards in modern History of Magic, the Dark Lord whose war had swept through most of the wizarding and Muggle worlds, Gellert Grindelwald—the man whose defeat had made Albus Dumbledore legendary—had become an unremarkable old man.

Placed beside the present-day Albus Dumbledore, it would be difficult to believe that he had once been a wizard on Dumbledore's level.

The old man by the bed had lost his power. Amosta could tell that the magic flowing through that withered body was not even as abundant as Filch's.

No one had tortured Gellert Grindelwald after his defeat. Magic drew its strength from the soul; his convictions had been destroyed, and his power had faded with them.

Amosta stared into Grindelwald's placid eyes. His world contained only himself and the newspaper in his hands.

The false Augusta Raman, the real Adam Vogel, knelt on one knee before Gellert Grindelwald as though worshipping a holy spirit. His gaze at Grindelwald brimmed with fervor and hope. He did not look at Amosta Breen even once, but deep down, he held enormous expectations, waiting for Breen to do something.

Rumble!

The roar of avalanches crashing into the cliffs mingled with the rolling thunder in the low-hanging leaden clouds, shaking Nurmengard's silence.

Nothing happened.

Amosta Breen stood calmly behind the door. He neither unleashed a storm of fury nor drew his wand. Meanwhile, the old man by the bed turned a page of his newspaper and quietly read Rita Skeeter's sharp commentary in The Daily Prophet on how Old Barty Crouch had taken extended sick leave without checking into St Mungo's.

After an unknown amount of time—clatter!

The square,