Outskirts of Rome – October 28th, 1978 – Afternoon
They stood at the edge of the warded perimeter near an abandoned alley that led toward the old Vaerendral flat.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The Curse Breaker's wand hovered inches from the air, glowing faintly. For a moment, the runes at his wrist pulsed gently as he murmured the spell again.
"Vestigia…"
Nothing.
No shimmer. No footprints. No magical resonance. Just silence.
One of the smugglers behind him shifted nervously. "It's… it's gone," he said. "There's nothing left."
The Curse Breaker lowered his wand slowly, frowning.
"I can see that," he said coldly. "That's not what I asked."
Another smuggler stepped forward. "I've seen this before," he said cautiously. "Only a few ways to make a trail go completely cold like this. They didn't Apparate. That always leaves a trace, even if it's faint."
The Curse Breaker said nothing, waiting.
"Portkey," the man continued. "Long-distance. Probably one of the rare black-market ones. They don't leave a trail behind. Not if they're properly shielded."
The Curse Breaker turned to look at him slowly. "And where would someone get a Portkey like that… in Rome?"
The smuggler scratched at his jaw. "There's a shop. Disgusting place. Smells like mold and rotten herbs. I've bought things there before. The guy running it… he trades with smugglers. And people like us."
He hesitated.
"I think his name is Giovanni."
The Curse Breaker's expression didn't change.
"Take me there."
The smuggler blinked. "Now?"
The Curse Breaker turned his head.
"Crucio."
The smuggler dropped to the ground, screaming, twitching uncontrollably as the curse ripped through him. His back arched unnaturally, his nails scraped the pavement, and he howled in agony.
The Curse Breaker held the curse for several long seconds.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the smuggler crumpled into a sobbing heap, gasping for air.
"I do not tolerate idiocy," the Curse Breaker said quietly, brushing imaginary dust from his cloak. "Next time, keep your mouth shut unless you have something useful to say."
He turned back toward the others.
"Take me to this Giovanni."
—————————————-
Giovanni's Shop, Rome | Evening
The shelves were shattered.
Broken glass crunched under boots as the heavy iron door slammed shut behind the Curse Breaker's retinue. The shop smelled like old parchment, burnt herbs, and blood—fresh blood.
Giovanni was on his knees in the middle of the floor. His arms were bound behind him with enchanted iron wire, his face already a mess of bruises, sweat, and blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut. A long gash across his cheek bled freely.
The vampire leaned against the counter, idly twirling Giovanni's wand between her fingers.
The Curse Breaker crouched in front of the man, calm, almost curious.
"I don't like repeating myself," he said quietly. "So I suggest you start talking."
Giovanni coughed, spitting blood onto the cracked stone floor. "I already told you… I don't know who—"
The wand flicked.
"Sanguinem Bullire."
The Blood-Boiling Curse surged through Giovanni's veins like molten fire. He screamed. Skin flushed red. Veins popped along his neck. He thrashed, convulsing on the floor, and cracked his head against the stone as he collapsed.
The Curse Breaker waited.
The screaming slowed.
Another flick. "Finite."
Giovanni gasped, trembling like a leaf, soaked in sweat.
The Curse Breaker stood and paced slowly behind him. "You sold a Portkey . Two, actually. One round-trip. One emergency. Long-distance. Registered to no name. Shielded to leave no trace. You're one of the only idiots in Rome stupid enough to sell those out in the open."
"I didn't know who he was—" Giovanni choked, voice raspy and wet.
"You did know," the Curse Breaker said. "He recognized something. A locket. And then… he killed two of my smugglers. Burned them to ash."
Giovanni tried to speak again, but a vampire appeared beside him and dragged a thin dagger across his arm. Slowly. Purposefully. Blood spilled onto the ground.
He howled.
"I don't—! I don't know what he wanted from them! He asked about a pocket watch! That's it!"
Another cut.
"Edric!" Giovanni screamed. "His name was Edric Vaerendral!"
Silence.
The vampires paused. The Curse Breaker did not move.
"What did you say?"
Giovanni sobbed. "He had the dragon crest. On the watch. The family motto engraved inside—Veritas in Tenebris… I swear I didn't know who he really was until after he left!"
One of the vampires stepped forward, her voice low. "Vaerendral. Are you certain?"
"Yes!" Giovanni gasped. "He took the portkey to England."
The Curse Breaker's gaze darkened.
"You're sure he's in England now?"
"Yes," Giovanni whispered. "Gone. I don't know where—he used one of my strongest portkeys. No trace. I swear!"
Silence fell again.
The vampire glanced to the Curse Breaker. "If it's a Vaerendral, we don't have the numbers. Not alone."
"We won't be alone," the Curse Breaker said.
He raised his wand toward Giovanni, who whimpered, eyes wide.
"No, no, no—wait—WAIT—"
"Silencio."
Then came the final spell. A deep, ancient word — whispered, not shouted.
"Dilacerare."
Giovanni's body convulsed, lifted from the floor, and tore itself apart. No fire. No sound. Just blood and magic and silence.
Nothing remained but a streak of red and a scorch mark on the stones.
The Curse Breaker turned toward the others.
"Prepare everything. We're going to Britain."
-----------------------------------------
October 30th, 1978 – Wiltshire, England
The old Vaerendral Keep stood silent atop the moss-covered cliffs, its worn towers catching the dim grey light of late October. The wind carried the crisp scent of fallen leaves and the distant hum of ancient magic—thick and undisturbed.
The nearby forest, once sacred to druids, stretched out endlessly beneath the overcast sky. Hidden within its roots, buried deep in the earth, pulsed one of Britain's oldest leyline convergences. Untouched by muggles. Untouched by time.
Cassian stood on the stone balcony, small fingers wrapped tightly around the iron railing. His silver-blue eyes were distant, fixed on the shifting treetops as if listening to something no one else could hear. At his feet, his black cat slept curled in a perfect spiral, her fur twitching every now and then with dream-static.
Inside, the keep was warm—wards humming, fires lit, everything warded and cloaked from any detection.
Sera entered from the ritual chamber below, wiping a smudge of powdered root from her fingers. She paused when she saw him still there.
"He's doing it again," she said softly.
Edric didn't look up. He was seated by the hearth, a folded parchment open in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly.
"He sees the flow of magic," he replied, voice calm. "It's not unusual. I did the same when I was his age."
Sera walked closer, still watching their son. "Maybe. But sometimes… his eyes look older. Like he knows more than he should. Then five minutes later, he's laughing with the cat and flying around like nothing happened."
Edric folded the parchment neatly and set it aside. He stood, fastening his coat.
Sera tilted her head slightly. "Where are you going?"
"The owl came from Arcturus."
He looked at her fully now. His face didn't change much—but Sera could always see past that.
She said nothing, just waited.
"Charlus passed," Edric said quietly. "Six months ago. After Dorea died last year. They say grief killed him."
Sera's lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak.
"Fleamont too. And his wife. Dragonpox. Last month."
Sera looked down, brows knitting.
"That leaves James," Edric continued. "Barely out of school and already risking his life for Dumbledore's cause. Arcturus says Sirius is fighting with him."
Sera reached for his hand.
"Regulus… joined the other side," Edric added, almost as an afterthought.
"Arcturus is furious.He cursed Walburga half a dozen times in the letter. Said the Black family is splintering."
He slipped the letter into his coat, fastening the top button.
"I'm going to meet him."
Seraphine looked up sharply. "Now?"
Edric nodded. "He says… someone's been asking about me. Not just anyone. A smuggler ring from the continent. Vampires. A Cursebreaker."
Edric nodded. "He says there are vampires in the country. And Cursebreaker and his smugglers are here too. Asking about the Vaerendral name. Entered the Country yesterday. Probably because of the two smugglers i killed in Rome. "
Seraphine's eyes searched his for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, she nodded.
"I'll continue the adjustments," she said. "The Moonwater, the feather. We'll finish the circle before Samhain."
Edric kissed her forehead gently. "Keep Cassian inside the wards."
Then, with a twist of space, he was gone.
----------------------------------------------
London, Midnight
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
The city was slick with rain, its streets quiet, cloaked in the hush of early hours. Edric appeared with no sound—no flash, no pop. Just a subtle shimmer of air.
He moved through the alley like a shadow, stopping before a crooked building wedged between numbers eleven and thirteen.
Twelve Grimmauld Place.
The windows were dark. The wards on the door flared faintly with old, proud magic. He knocked once.
The door creaked open an inch—and an eye appeared.
Red. Gleaming. Furious.
"WHAT DOES MASTER WANT FROM THIS HOUSE?" came the shriek of the house-elf. "This is the noble House of Black! You are not welcome!"
Edric narrowed his eyes at the creature. "Tell Arcturus Black that Edric Vaerendral is here."
The elf hissed, retreating behind the door.
Moments passed.
Then the door opened wider with a deep groan, heavy with enchantment.
The interior of Grimmauld Place was as bleak as ever—shadowed hallways, peeling wallpaper, and portraits that whispered from behind tattered curtains.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Then, from the gloom, a tall, sharp-eyed man stepped into the light.
Arcturus Black.
His beard was streaked with grey now, but his presence hadn't faded. If anything, it had sharpened with age.
"Took you long enough," he said.
Edric gave a slight nod. "I came as soon as I got your letter."
Arcturus looked him over. "Still not dead, I see."
"Working on it," Edric replied dryly.
They clasped forearms in an old warrior's greeting.
And without another word, the door closed behind them.
"Come," Arcturus said, not bothering to look back as he turned and walked down the hallway. "We'll talk in the study."
Edric followed without a word, his boots echoing softly over the worn wood floors. The air in Grimmauld Place was thick — not with dust or magic, but with silence. A kind of silence that settled into the bones of the house. It felt heavier now. Emptier.
"Kreacher," Arcturus barked as they entered the dimly lit study. "Get us something to drink."
The elf scurried into the room, twitchy and foul-tempered as ever.
"Something strong," Edric added.
Kreacher let out a high-pitched grumble — something halfway between a curse and a groan — and popped away.
Edric's eyes scanned the room. The shelves were the same — dark wood, old tomes, half-burnt candles. But the portraits were quieter than usual, more of them hidden behind drawn curtains. Something about it made him uneasy.
"What happened to this place?" he asked.
Arcturus didn't answer right away. He moved to the fireplace and stared into the unlit hearth, his back to Edric. The only sound in the room was the quiet crackle of ward magic humming faintly along the walls.
Creature popped back in, floating a bottle of old bourbon and two heavy crystal glasses between them. He set them down with more attitude than grace, then disappeared with another sneer.
Arcturus took his drink in one hand and downed it in one long, slow swallow.
"I'm old, Edric," he said finally, his voice lower, rougher. "Don't come here much anymore. Can't stand the screaming. Walburga never shuts up."
He poured another glass and waved the bottle toward Edric.
"Can't say I understand what the hell's happened to this family. Orion— brilliant duelist, sharp mind — and he just had to go marry that woman. Second cousin or not, she was poison. Pureblood pride turned sour. Not tradition. Not strength. Just… venom."
Edric took the glass silently and sat down across from him.
"They forgot what it means to be a Black," Arcturus muttered. "Blinded by greed. Hatred. And that pureblood nonsense that this abomination has been preaching for the last few years…"
He shook his head.
"I know blood matters. You and I both know that. But that Creature? He's not talking about legacy. He's talking about control. About destruction. The Ministry's collapsing under his influence, and that damned mudblood minister is too proud to admit it."
He poured again. Didn't stop.
"Grindelwald… for all his madness, he had a vision. A future. He thought he was doing something righteous. Wrong, but righteous. This one? He's just rot wrapped in a name. He wants the world to kneel or burn. And I fear he'll get both."
The silence between them stretched, broken only by the soft clink of glass.
Then Arcturus leaned forward slightly.
"Anyway," he said, voice quieter now. "Like I wrote… Have you done anything recently that would put a bullseye on your back?"
Edric hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then, he reached into his coat and pulled out the silver pocket watch, setting it gently on the table.
Arcturus's brows furrowed as he leaned closer.
"That belonged to Alarric, didn't it?" he asked, recognition flickering in his eyes.
Edric nodded. "Found it in a shop in Rome. Two smugglers sold it there. I… dealt with them."
"Dealt with?" Arcturus said dryly.
"They're dead."
Arcturus snorted. "Good."
Edric leaned back, sipping his drink. "They had other things with them. A raw phoenix feather. A vial of Moonwater. And… a map."
Arcturus stilled.
"Alexandria," Edric added. "Written at the top. Looks like nothing. Burnt around the edges. But it was with the watch."
Arcturus whistled low. "You think Alaric found something?"
"I don't know," Edric said honestly. "I haven't had time to look deeper into it. Right now, the priority is the ritual. Cassian."
He paused, finishing his drink.
"We're performing it tomorrow night. Samhain. When the moon's at its peak."
Arcturus looked at him, eyes sharp despite the age behind them. "And after that?"
"I leave Britain," Edric said quietly. "We've lingered too long."
"You're not staying to fight?"
Edric looked at him for a long moment. "If it were just me… I'd find that self-proclaimed Lord and drag him through the dirt. I'd wipe the floor with him. But I have a wife now. A son."
He glanced toward the pocket watch on the table.
"They are my future. They come before any war."
Arcturus nodded slowly. "Your family is all that's left."
"Of both lines," Edric said. "Vaerendral and Fontaine. Just the three of us now."
Another pause.
Then Arcturus stood and walked toward the window. "Be careful, Edric. That Cursebreaker who's looking for you… he's not alone. And he's not just a scavenger. He's after something big."
"I know," Edric said.
"Bigger than you think," Arcturus added. "He's part of something. And they want what's buried."
The fireplace crackled low behind them, casting long shadows across the study walls. Arcturus rolled the now-empty glass between his fingers, eyeing Edric over the rim.
"I have to ask," he finally said, breaking the stillness. "This ritual… why put so much weight into it?"
Edric didn't answer at first.
"I mean," Arcturus went on, "I know our families — the old rituals, the traditions. We used to perform rites over newborns too. But these things… Most families have long forgotten them. Lost to time. And the Ministry stamped the rest out, branding anything remotely powerful as dark magic."
He leaned forward, studying Edric's face.
"But you've been chasing this for years. I can see it. The way you move when you speak about it. The ingredients alone must've cost you more than a Gringotts vault. So tell me. Why this? Why now?"
Edric exhaled softly, eyes flicking to the side. He looked tired.
"It's Cassian," he said finally. "He's… different."
Arcturus raised a brow. "Different how?"
Edric hesitated, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I don't say this just because I'm his father. Cassian is… something else. He's got both Vaerendral and Fontaine blood. Our line's gifts — they're strong in him. Too strong, maybe."
He paused.
"He sees things, Arcturus. He sees magic. Not in theory. Not through learning. He sees it as it moves. As it flows. He stares out into the woods sometimes, just… watching. Unblinking. As if he's listening to something no one else can hear."
Arcturus didn't speak, but he was listening now. Really listening.
"His magical sensitivity is off the charts. He reacts to wards, to subtle shifts in ambient magic, like a tuned instrument. And his accidental magic?" Edric let out a faint laugh. "It's not accidental. I'm sure of it. He wants something, it appears. Across the room. From another room. Sometimes, he vanishes — tipsy has to chase him through the manor."
He leaned back again, eyes distant now. "It's like his magic doesn't obey the usual rules."
"Like it knows," Arcturus said slowly.
Edric nodded once. "Exactly."
Then, quieter, "He's not even three, and he speaks like a child twice his age. He's fluent in English, French, and Italian. Picks up languages like they're music notes. And… sometimes, when he looks at me, there's this… depth in his eyes. Like he sees through me. Through everything."
Arcturus's glass clicked quietly against the wood.
Edric continued, voice low.
"I found the ritual twenty years ago, buried deep in the sealed vaults beneath the keep. Took me five more just to translate it. It's ancient. Meant to be performed only on a child born during Samhain, under a specific convergence of ley lines. On their third birthday."
He glanced toward the window, as if seeing something far away.
"It strengthens the child's Mind. Body. Magical capacity. Enhances cognitive functions and sences. It awakens dormant gifts — amplifies what's already there. If we do it right, Cassian could be… he could be one of the strongest mages this century. Maybe the last two."
Arcturus breathed out slowly.
"And you're scared," he said.
Edric gave a faint smile. "Only a fool wouldn't be."
A long pause followed. Then Edric stood. He reached into his coat and pulled out a sealed letter, pressed it into Arcturus's hand.
"If anything happens to me or Seraphine," he said softly, "open it."
Arcturus didn't take his eyes off him. "You really think something will?"
"I don't know," Edric admitted. "But I've had this feeling. Since the moment we set foot back in England. Something's shifting. Moving beneath the surface. I don't like it."
He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.
"We'll finish the ritual. Then we're gone. The Keep is sealed. Fontaineclaire is under stasis. After this… I want to show Cassian the world. Not just this rotting island."
He lingered one more second, then added with a small, bitter smile, "I don't know when the Department of Mysteries plans to act. Or if Dumbledore's actually doing anything besides handing out second chances like candy. But we can't wait for heroes to clean this up. That abomination has already destroyed too much."
Arcturus stood too, nodding solemnly.
"You're doing the right thing," he said. "Protecting your family."
Edric nodded once. Then, quietly, he picked up Alarric's pocket watch from the table, pocketed it, and walked toward the door.
"Goodbye, old friend," he said.
------------------------------------------
October 30th, 1978 – Catacombs beneath Caorach Keep, Scottish Coast
The wind howled like a wounded beast across the jagged cliffs of the northern coast, crashing waves throwing salt and spray against stone long worn by time. The ruins of Caorach Keep loomed above the sea like a broken crown, its towers reduced to shattered silhouettes, its once-proud halls crumbled into moss-choked silence.
But beneath the ruin, far below the surface, the catacombs lived.
Carved deep into the rock centuries ago, the chambers were warm with ancient, hidden magic — the kind that whispered promises of power and whispered curses in the dark. Candles floated above an obsidian table, casting flickering light on hooded figures standing in a half-circle around it.
The air was tense.
At the far side of the chamber, a figure stepped from the shadows.
The Curse Breaker. No name. No welcome.
He wore the same dark robes etched with glowing runes, and flanked on either side by the pale, silent vampires. Their eyes glimmered red in the candlelight, unnatural and ancient.
He didn't bow. Didn't speak.
A woman stepped forward from among the figures. Her coppery-red hair was bound tightly behind her head, eyes sharp and cold. She wore long, dark robes, the Gringotts sigil faintly visible on her shoulder.
Patricia Rakepick.
"You're late," she said flatly.
The Curse Breaker tilted his head. "I was delayed."
"You were careless," she corrected. "The map. The smugglers. All of it—gone. Burned to ash because you let it slip through your fingers."
The vampires shifted slightly, but said nothing. Their presence alone added tension to the air.
One of the other robed figures spoke now, voice muffled beneath his cowl. "You were given responsibility. Now the Cabal is exposed. Your smugglers spoke before they died."
The Curse Breaker remained calm, but his wand hand twitched at his side.
"I will find him," he said. "The trail's cold, but not dead."
Rakepick raised an eyebrow. "You'd better. Because the Cabal has given you one week. Find the map fragment. Retrieve it. Or..." She glanced toward one of the hooded figures standing behind her. "There will be consequences."
He stared at her in silence, expression unreadable.
"You want to succeed?" she continued, stepping closer. "Then stop trying to act like a lone shadowwalker. The name Vaerendral isn't a footnote. It carries weight—old blood, old magic. If he's who we think he is, you're going to need help."
He didn't move, but something in his expression darkened.
"Reach out to the Dark Lord," she added. "You two may not share ideology, but your goals align for now. Voldemort wants power. You want the map. Work together."
The Curse Breaker's voice was quiet, but sharp. "And the vampires?"
"They are at your disposal. For now," Rakepick said, glancing at the two beside him. "So are the others. The Cabal will support your efforts—with vampires, werewolves, and other… resources."
Another figure from the circle stepped forward, his voice a gravelly murmur. "Even the Dementors of Azkaban may be persuaded… if the terms are right."
The Curse Breaker said nothing. He simply looked up toward the stone ceiling above them, as though he could see beyond it — see the cold sea and the stars beyond.
Then he turned.
"I'll have what you want," he said. "And I'll burn the Vaerendral line from the map myself, if I have to."
He strode toward the exit, his vampires trailing after him without a word.
The figures around the table watched him go in silence.
As the stone door sealed behind him, Patricia Rakepick muttered under her breath.
"Let's hope your ego doesn't get us all killed."
-------------------------------
October 31st, 1978 – Vaerendral Ritual Sanctuary, Wiltshire11:00 p.m. – Samhain
The chamber was silent, save for the sound of wind whispering against ancient stone high above. The sanctuary lay deep beneath the old Vaerendral Keep—hidden away centuries ago, untouched by time or war. Pale moonlight filtered through narrow slits in the domed ceiling, casting long silver lines across the moss-dark walls. The air was thick with magic, humming with the unseen breath of ley lines converging below.
The runic circle glowed faintly on the floor, etched into the black stone in intricate spirals of ancient magic—Vaerendral script laced with Druidic glyphs. Soft pulses of light flowed through the grooves like a heartbeat waiting to awaken.
Cassian stood at the center, barefoot, dressed in ritual whites. His cat lay curled beside the outer circle, eyes like liquid silver watching in stillness. The child's gaze was distant, solemn. He didn't speak.
Edric stepped forward and knelt beside his son. He took Cassian's small hand gently in his own, then drew a ceremonial blade. Without a word, he made a shallow cut across the palm—Cassian didn't flinch. A single drop of blood fell to the runes below.
The circle drank it.
A shimmer passed through the chamber, and for a heartbeat, everything glowed red. Then fire sparked at the circle's heart—blue flames erupting like breath from a slumbering god. The red glow was devoured instantly, burned away until only cool blue light remained, rippling outward like waves on still water.
Cassian's wound closed without a scar.
Edric stepped back.
Seraphine, robed in midnight silver, stepped forward with calm precision. Her lips began to move in Latin, voice barely above a whisper. From a marble pedestal beside her, she lifted the first of the twelve ingredients.
She tossed the Phoenix Feather into the flame.
"Ex cineribus, renascitur."From the ashes, rebirth.
The flames surged upward, glowing gold and crimson for a breath before fading back to blue. Cassian's body pulsed faintly with light.
Next, she uncorked a small crystal vial and let fall a drop of Moonwater into the flame.
"Clareat mens, purificetur corpus."Let the mind shine, let the body be purified.
Silver light passed over Cassian's skin like a wave. He inhaled sharply, but said nothing.
Then came the Silver Root Vine, harvested just before dawn.
"Radix arcana, coniunge sanguinem."Root of the arcane, merge with the blood.
The glyphs ignited, humming deeper now. The ritual had begun to stir fully awake.
Seraphine didn't pause. She lifted the Thunderbird Heartstring, wrapped it once around her fingers, and dropped it into the fire.
"Ex tonitru, potentia surgat."From thunder, let power rise.
Sparks danced across Cassian's skin, tiny bolts of light crackling over his chest and shoulders.
Next came powdered Aurorian Pearl, sifted slowly into the flame.
"Lumen anticum, mente constringe."Ancient light, bind to the mind.
His pupils widened, breath slowing. Seraphine watched closely. His body was responding perfectly.
A single drop of freely given unicorn blood shimmered as it fell.
"Innocentia volens, corpus roboret."Willing innocence, strengthen the body.
His skin glowed faintly silver. Edric nodded in quiet approval.
Then came dragonbone powder, the coarsely ground remains of an ancient ridgeback.
"Ossibus antiquis, firmitatem da."From ancient bones, grant resilience.
The circle trembled. Cassian clenched his small hands, eyes fluttering.
Seraphine poured Moondew Essence into the flame, the liquid falling in slow, syrupy drips.
"Essentia lunaris, sensus accende."Essence of the moon, awaken the senses.
Cassian twitched. His head tilted, listening to something no one else could hear.
Next, Shadow Lotus petals—midnight black, gathered from the marshes of Fontaineclaire.
Edric added them himself.
"Ex umbra, praesidium oriatur."From shadow, let protection rise.
A faint ring of dark energy flared around the ritual's edge. The circle sealed.
Spirit Glass Dust followed, a shimmer of crystalline fragments blown across the fire like ash.
"Speculum animae, visum concede."Mirror of the soul, grant true sight.
Cassian gasped. Light danced behind his eyes.
Finally, Seraphine lifted the last vial: Tears of the Banshee. Her hand trembled.
"Ex luctu, vox potentiae."From grief, the voice of power.
The drop hit the flame.
A scream—not from Cassian, but from somewhere else—rattled the walls. Cold flooded the chamber. Cassian cried out, his voice echoing twice over itself, unnatural. Edric was beside him in a heartbeat.
"Cassian," he whispered. "Stay with us. Stay awake."
Cassian's head jerked. He grit his teeth.
Seraphine and Edric raised their wands together.
They spoke in unison, ancient words reverberating through the chamber:
"Sanguis et Lux, Corpus et Animus.Unum Fiant. Surge, Fili Nostrae Domus.Ex Arcanis, Lux."
Blood and light, body and soul.Let them be one. Rise, child of our house.From the arcane, light.
The runes blazed.
Light erupted around Cassian, forming a pillar that surged upward to the dome. The sound was like thunder underwater. The flame pulsed once, twice—then collapsed inward, sucked into Cassian's chest.
For a moment, he hovered, suspended in perfect silence.
Then gently, he floated back down.
His feet touched the stone.
His eyes opened—
—and they glowed with light.