It was the second of November.
Late afternoon, maybe. The light bleeding through the curtains was dull and lazy.
Everything in the flat felt too still, like time had slowed down and forgotten how to move
forward.
I was lying on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Blank expression. Unfocused.
The only sound in the room was a quiet, slow humming—just a few broken notes of a
tune I barely remembered. A lullaby. My mother used to sing it when I cried as a baby.
French. Soft. Distant. I didn't even know all the words anymore, just the melody, just the
feel of it.
"Dors, mon trésor…"
The door clicked open with a pop, and I didn't even flinch.
Thornik appeared at the foot of the bed—another one of the elves, smaller than Thornik,
with sharper ears and gentler eyes. He looked hesitant, like he didn't want to interrupt.
"Master Cassian must eat," he said carefully. "You haven't eaten since… before the
water."
I turned my head slightly and looked at him. Just for a second.
"…Yeah," I muttered. "Right."
Then I went back to staring at the ceiling.
Thornik sighed—soft and high-pitched—and vanished with a crack.
I didn't move.
I didn't feel hungry, even though I knew I should be. It was probably the calming draught
still in my system. Or maybe grief just ate everything else first.
My mind was drifting. Thinking. Sorting.
I'd read the Daily Prophet earlier this morning. Nothing. Not a single mention of an
attack. No explosions. No massive magical disturbance. No body count.
That Keep had burned. A full-on battle happened—wards shattered, the ground split
open, magic strong enough to echo across the leyline. People died. A lot of people.
And nothing.
No one said a word.
Snakeface must have people in the Ministry. Deep.
I frowned.
That… wasn't in the books. Not like this. I mean, I knew there was corruption, but this
level of suppression? After something that loud? Either the Ministry is completely
compromised, or they're terrified of what they felt in the magic.
Probably both.
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled slowly.
This was supposed to be a story. Just a book. A kid's book.
J.K. Rowling must've been a seer or something. Or caught a glimpse of this world
through some thin veil. I mean… if I crossed over at Samhain, maybe others have. Maybe
she just saw pieces.
Still doesn't explain how I ended up here.
I stared at my hand. Skin pale. Smooth. Three years old. But I didn't feel small. I didn't
feel like a child.
I was born in 1975. Three years old now. So it's 1978.
Which means Harry isn't even born yet.
That's three years until Voldemort falls.
Three years of war, of Death Eaters destroying lives, and the Ministry pretending
everything's under control.
Right now… this is the bloodiest part of the war.
Snakeface has to be hurt. I saw that duel. Dad didn't hold back. He might've torn a piece
of him off. That kind of damage? Even with Horcruxes, it'll take time to recover.
That's my window.
I need to get out before he stabilizes. Before his forces regroup. If the Ministry starts
pushing back within a year, and Snakeface starts terrorizing harder in return, I have
maybe… two or three years max before the real darkness hits again.
If I'm still in the country then… I won't survive.
I sighed and rubbed my face.
They still haven't found my great-grandfather.
And Arcturus… he's somewhere in London, probably. But I can't risk reaching out the
wrong way. The wrong owl. The wrong name. If the rest of the Blacks find out—
Bellatrix.
No. Nope.
She's probably already off the rails. If she even sniffs a Vaerendral heir, she'll start
carving names into walls.
And Narcissa's married to a Death Eater. Andromeda got disowned.
Regulus is probably in Hogwarts still. Sirius, too.
Which makes me… the youngest person in this whole world with a target on his back.
Yeah. I need to leave the country.
Buy time. Learn. Wait.
The Ministry will take a year, maybe more, to even start pushing back after His fall. And
by then, a bunch of Death Eaters will claim Imperius.
I need to be gone before then.
And I need to start learning.
My father said the ritual would strengthen me. Boost what I already had. But this?
This is something else.
I've got perfect recall now. I read a page once and I remember it. My head's clearer than
it's ever been. My body feels stronger. Faster. The scratches from the river? Gone. Not
even a scar left.
This is insane.
I was smart before. But this. This is next level.
Now I'm some magical… Tony Stark wizard hybrid with PTSD.
I let out a half-breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
My eyes drifted to the side.
The grimoire was lying next to me, faintly glowing under the low light.
I reached out, fingers brushing over the cover.
"…Alright," I murmured.
"Let's see what you've got."
I snapped the book open, the familiar thud of leather and parchment falling into my lap.
Let's find out how you work," I muttered under my breath, not really expecting anything
to happen. But a part of me already knew better.
I dragged my fingers slowly across the inside of the cover. The runes etched there were
still glowing—softly, steadily—like embers buried in ash. As my fingertips brushed over
them, the glow pulsed, almost like they were responding to my touch. Breathing, maybe.
A faint thread of light curled upward from the surface of the pages, like fog slipping
through cracks. I could see it, even feel the way it hummed against my skin. That had to
be my mage sight. Normal wizards probably wouldn't even notice. But then again, I
wasn't exactly a normal wizard anymore, was I?
The ritual had changed me. Boosted me. I could feel it every time I focused. Everything
was sharper now. Magic felt louder. More present. Like it had always been there, just
beneath the surface, waiting for permission to wake up.
I took a slow breath and spoke again, this time a little clearer.
"I need knowledge of how you work."
The book didn't hesitate.
The pages began to turn. One by one, at first—slow, steady—but then faster. The
f
luttering sound echoed in the quiet of the room, filling the space like wings unfolding.
The motion picked up speed, flipping faster and faster, blurring past entire chapters of
runes and diagrams I couldn't even catch a glimpse of—until, without warning, it
stopped.
The pages flapped once, like they were settling into place. And then they lay still.
At the top of the left page, written in smooth, shimmering ink, were the words:
—Upon the Nature of This Tome and Its Inner Workings—
I kept reading.
Beneath the title, the handwriting was smaller. Neat. Faded black ink on slightly off
white parchment, the kind that looked like it had aged in candlelight. The strokes were
delicate but sharp, written by someone who clearly had way too much practice holding a
quill.
This grimoire, created and perfected by generations of Vaerendral archivists, does not
simply contain knowledge.
It is linked to it.
Bound by blood and awakened by will, it holds within the key to the wisdom of the
Vaerendral line, from its earliest breath in stone-bound Greece to the present day.
Herein is the knowledge we gathered, recorded, refined, and stored within the Archives
of Vaerendral.
This grimoire is self-updating, and grants the bearer access to the entirety of the
achieved knowledge.
Through intent alone, this tome presents the knowledge you seek.
I blinked at the page.
"So it's basically a magical fantasy search engine," I muttered under my breath.
Useful. Incredibly useful. And terrifying.
I glanced back down and kept reading.
Below the older writing, the script shifted slightly. The letters were newer. A little taller.
Still elegant, but firmer, like the hand behind it didn't shake.
By the joining of the Fontaine and Vaerendral bloodlines, the wisdom of the Fontaine line
is to be made part of the Vaerendral Archive. Thus, the grimoire shall reflect both.
The Fontaine alchemic repositories, healing records, potioneering compendium and
physical enhancement practices , magical herbology, life-bound spellcraft—
All shall be preserved and made accessible through shared blood. It was a legacy.
Everything my ancestors ever studied. Everything they learned. Everything they were.
From both sides. The Vaerendrals and their mind-magic, soulwork, enchantments, and
academic obsession. The Fontaines with their alchemy, nature magic, and life-blood
spellcraft.
A union of mind and body. Of form and spirit.
And it was mine.
I let out a dry laugh under my breath and shook my head slowly.
"I have a grimoire that contains literal centuries—no, millennia—of knowledge," I
whispered.
That was… kind of insane.
But also?
Kinda awesome.
Knowledge is power, I reminded myself.
And if I'm going to survive this, if I'm going to keep running, and hiding, and eventually—
f
inally—take revenge on that snake-faced bastard…
Then I'll need every ounce of it.
I clenched my fist around the edge of the parchment.
Let's see what kind of legacy you really left me, Father.
—————————————–—–————
4th of November, 1978
London – Vaerendral Flat
Evening
The food wasn't anything fancy—just warm, filling, and far better than what I'd expected
after two days of living like a half-conscious ghost.
I sat at the dining table, one leg tucked under me, fork in hand, chewing slowly as the
shadows deepened outside the windows. London's evening haze was thick against the
glass. Streetlamps flickered in the distance like dull stars, and the city was its usual
blend of alive and asleep at the same time.
I didn't know what time it was. Somewhere after six, maybe? It didn't really matter.
What mattered was that I was finally eating like I hadn't been dragged through a
battlefield, a river, and a breakdown in the span of forty-eight hours.
Because I had been.
The flat was quiet. Clean. Thornik and the others had done their usual disappearing act,
leaving behind polished wood, dust-free shelves, and the lingering scent of lemon oil
and potion steam. Athena was curled up on the windowsill, watching the fog. Her tail
f
licked once every so often, like she was counting time.
I'd barely made it through the roasted potatoes when I heard the soft pop.
I didn't jump this time.
Thornik appeared just a few feet from the table, hands folded neatly, ears slightly
twitching.
His voice was low, respectful. "Master Cassian is being contacted. Master Arcturus
Black is asking for meeting."
I set my fork down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before thinking better of it
and using the napkin like a functional human being.
"Arcturus," I repeated. "He reached out?"
Thornik nodded. "Yes, master. Is sending portkey. Will activate tomorrow. After morning
bells."
"Where?"
"Not told to Thornik. Portkey will know."
Of course it would.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. The chandelier above
didn't glitter—it just glowed faintly, steady and soft, like the magic in this place was
trying not to startle me.
Thornik held out the portkey with both hands—just a length of rope, frayed at the edges,
wrapped in a faint shimmer of dormant magic.
I took it without saying much.
"Thank you," I said quietly, eyes still on the rope. "You can go back now."
Thornik gave a low nod and vanished with a soft pop, leaving the room colder in that
subtle way silence tends to creep in after someone's gone.
I sat there for a minute longer, twirling the rope between my fingers.
It didn't look like much. But portkeys rarely did.
When I finished my food, I picked up the rope and made my way to the bedroom. The flat
was dim, the lights soft and golden—the kind of cozy someone probably paid an interior
designer to create. My footsteps didn't echo. Everything here felt… muted. Like the
space had been waiting, unused, for someone like me to arrive.
The grimoire was on the desk, exactly where I'd left it. Still open. Still faintly glowing like
it couldn't bear to sleep. Beside it, my bag—packed, or as close to it as I could manage.
I set the rope down next to them and walked to the window.
It was raining.
Properly raining.
Thick droplets streaked across the glass in slow, meandering trails, the wind howling
softly like the building itself was sighing. The streetlights below were blurry, haloed in
silver and amber. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled low across the city skyline.
I used to love the rain.
Back in my first life, it always calmed me. Gave me something to focus on—something
real, something steady. But now?
Now it wasn't enough.
I pressed a hand lightly to the cold glass, staring out at the London skyline. It looked…
wrong. Not unfamiliar, exactly—but different. Smaller somehow. Dimmer. No towering
cranes, no glittering skyline. Just rooftops and chimney stacks and the curve of old
streets.
This flat must have cost a fortune even back in the '70s. High floor. Panoramic view. Top
end warding. But then again, the Vaerendrals never lacked for wealth. Some things didn't
change. Magic made generational money almost… inevitable.
Wealth had always been a constant in my lives.
Family hadn't.
That was the one thing I'd never really had. Not fully. Not for long.
I let my gaze drift further, trying to map this version of London onto the one I
remembered. But it didn't line up. Not quite. Too many gaps. Too many shadows where
buildings should be. It wasn't just the time difference—it was the world itself.
This wasn't the London I remembered because this wasn't the same reality.
I was born on Samhain. On the night the veil between worlds is thinnest. Maybe it was a
cosmic accident. Maybe some interdimensional hiccup. Or maybe some ancient entity
got bored and pulled my soul through just to see what would happen.
I wasn't religious. Never had been. I believed in magic now, sure—but gods? Fate?
Hard to say.
I liked to think it was all just random. Easier that way. Less personal.
I would've kept spiraling down that rabbit hole, but I felt soft paws padding up behind
me.
Athena.
She trotted up on her little blue clouds like she owned the place and stopped at my feet,
looking up at me with those silvery eyes of hers.
Without thinking, I leaned down, and she jumped straight into my arms.
She wasn't fully grown yet, but with me in this tiny three-year-old body, she looked about
as big as my entire torso. Which… okay, probably looked a little ridiculous.
I held her close anyway.
She nuzzled into my neck, purring quietly.
I kept stroking her fur gently, watching the way her eyes half-lidded with contentment as
she pressed into my shoulder.
"You always know how to cheer me up when I'm feeling down, don't you?" I whispered.
She purred in response, a soft, steady hum against my chest.
It almost sounded like agreement.
"Yeah…" I murmured. "Or I'm finally going crazy."
The thought should've unsettled me, but it didn't. Not really.
"I mean, I talk to a floating cat who walks on clouds and probably has more magical
heritage than half the Ministry… and I'm three years old again in a world from a children's
book." I paused, stroking the space between her ears. "So, yeah. Sanity's kind of relative
now."
Athena blinked slowly, clearly unimpressed by my existential spiral.
I let out a soft chuckle.
It felt strange. Awkward in my throat, but real. The first time I'd laughed—actually
laughed—since the Keep.
Magic was real.
I gave Athena one last scratch beneath the chin before lifting her gently from my arms
and setting her down on the desk.
She landed with a soft thump, immediately padding over to the edge and curling around
the base of the inkwell.
I took my seat and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk, eyes drifting back to
the open grimoire.
I let out a breath, ran a hand through my hair, and focused.
This book responded to intent.
Which meant somewhere in here, there had to be something—some protocol—for a
situation like mine. The Vaerendrals didn't strike me as the type to leave their legacy
unguarded. Not when they'd spent millennia cataloguing magic like obsessed scholars
hoarding spells.
I pressed my fingers lightly to the page.
"Okay," I murmured.
"In case the heir gets orphaned before he can be taught properly… or isn't
knowledgeable about his heritage…"
I paused.
"Are there any fail-safes in place?"
The book didn't flip instantly this time. It pulsed once beneath my fingertips, like it was
thinking, if that were possible. Then slowly—deliberately—the pages began to turn. Not
fast and fluttering like before, but steady.
The header was written in bold, ink-dark lettering:
On Contingencies of Bloodline Disruption and Emergency Protocols
My eyes widened just slightly.
There it was.
I sat up straighter, heart ticking a little faster.
"Alright," I whispered. "Let's see what secrets you've been hiding."
I leaned in, my fingertips brushing the edge of the script. Athena didn't move, just curled
tighter beside the inkwell like she knew something important was about to unfold.
Beneath the heading, the first paragraph read:
In the event the blood heir of House Vaerendral becomes orphaned, or is otherwise
unable to receive guidance from the direct line due to death, separation, or magical
interference, certain safeguards must be enacted.
The first of these is the Compass of Altharion.
I blinked, my breath catching slightly.
I read on.
The Compass of Altharion was forged in the earliest days of the Archive's founding by
Lord Altharion Vaerendral, third Archivist and Grandmaster of Waycraft. It is to be
passed from the reigning head of the family to their chosen heir in times of instability or
threat.
The Compass does not merely point north—it senses intent, bloodline magic, hostile
pursuit, and environmental threats. It draws on the Archive's ley-binding to guide the heir
toward safe passage, warded shelter, and ancestral allies.
In moments of mortal danger, the Compass will act of its own accord. It will shield,
transport, and obscure the heir's location through temporary phasing of surrounding
space.
It is bound only to blood. It answers only to family.
My throat tightened.
Dad… he knew. Even in the chaos, even while fighting for his life, he made sure I had it.
Made sure I survived.
I remembered the way he shoved it into my hand. The glow. The sudden force. The light
that wrapped around me like fire and salt and wind.
That was this.
The Compass of Altharion.
Should the heir survive and be in possession of the Compass, they are advised to follow
its guidance only when it glows with active intent.
The parchment beneath my fingers shifted again—just slightly—as if the book had more
to say.
And it did.
The Compass of Altharion must be supplied with sufficient magical energy to protect the
blood-heir and fulfill its directive.
Once the heir has reached a location deemed secure, the Compass will glow.
When glowing, the central core may be pressed to awaken the dormant spirit housed
within.
There it was.
That was what my father meant.
I kept reading, eyes flicking faster now.
If the Compass is exhausted before the heir can activate it, it will fall dormant. In this
state, it may be reawakened in one of three ways:
1. A direct supply of magic from the bearer.
2. Allowing the Compass to passively gather ambient magical energy until saturation is
reached.
3. Blood Offering: the heir may offer a drop of blood to the Compass, triggering its
absorption protocol. This method forces rapid saturation by drawing from the heir's
magic. It should not be attempted by bearers below the age of magical maturity.
I sat back slightly, frowning.
Okay.
Number two was out. I didn't have time to wait who knows how long for the Compass to
drink in enough background magic.
Number three? Bloodletting? Yeah, no thanks.
I didn't even know what magical maturity technically meant in this world, but I was
pretty sure I hadn't hit it. I could barely hold a wand yet, let alone bleed magic out like a
fuel tank.
So that left me with option one.
Feeding it magic manually.
I turned the page and found what I was hoping for.
To restore a dormant Compass of Altharion, the following incantation must be spoken
while channeling focused will:
"Animus in signum. Lux surgat in tenebris, viam ostende. Vetus fluxa, magia fluxa—
Compasso reviviscet."
This spell must be performed seven times over the course of seven consecutive hours.
The Compass will absorb ambient and personal magic in tandem. Upon full saturation,
the glow will return, and activation will be possible.
Seven hours.
Of consistent effort.
I exhaled slowly and glanced toward the bag where the Compass sat, silent and lifeless.
"Well," I muttered, "looks like we've got a long night ahead of us."
Athena lifted her head slightly, ears twitching.
I gave her a faint smile and reached for the Compass.
"Let's wake you up."
The compass was cold in my hand.
I sat cross-legged on the floor beside the desk, the lights dimmed low, Athena curled
silently on the bed behind me like she was watching something ancient unfold.
The grimoire was still open, the incantation shimmering faintly across the parchment
like the letters themselves were carved from moonlight.
I took a breath.
raised my hand, pressed my palm lightly against its worn metal surface, and began to
speak.
"Animus in signum," I whispered, voice barely louder than the rain tapping the windows.
"Lux surgat in tenebris, viam ostende.
Vetus fluxa, magia fluxa—Compasso reviviscet."
The words lingered in the air like smoke.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the compass glowed.
A soft pulse, not blinding, deep blue light spilling from the center node like something
awakening from sleep. And I felt it.
Magic leaving me , like something was being drawn out of me in long, steady waves. Like
the compass was drinking.
My head swam. My limbs went cold.
The air in the room shifted.
The lights flickered—briefly—like the magic was reaching out beyond just me. The wards
around the flat pulsed in response, but held.
Then the glow dimmed, until it disappeared completely.
The compass lay heavy in my hand again, dull and silent.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and slumped back against the side of the
bed, pulse hammering in my ears. My magic felt… hollow. Not empty. But definitely
lighter. Like I'd poured part of myself into stone and copper and spellwork older than my
soul.
"One down," I muttered. "Six to go."
I didn't even have the energy to lift my hand again.
By the time the seventh hour rolled around, I could barely keep my eyes open.
My voice was hoarse. My arms felt like lead. Even thinking hurt.
I sat hunched over the compass, legs tucked beneath me, the grimoire still open to the
spell—though I no longer needed to read it. I'd whispered it into existence six times now.
I could hear the words in my bones.
The room was dark except for a single hovering orb of light near the ceiling—flickering,
weak, like it mirrored how I felt.
There was a soft pop beside me.
Thornik appeared, silent as always, holding something in both hands.
"Master Cassian must drink," he said, voice softer than usual. "Pepper-up potion. Is not
wise to faint before last spell."
I didn't argue.
I reached for the vial with shaking fingers, uncorked it, and downed it in one gulp.
I turned back to the compass, still dull and silent in the middle of the desk.
One more.
Just one more.
I pressed my hand to its surface and took a breath that didn't feel deep enough.
"Animus in signum…
Lux surgat in tenebris, viam ostende…
Vetus fluxa, magia fluxa—Compasso reviviscet."
This time, the response was immediate.
The compass flared.
A brilliant light—white-gold and blinding—exploded outward from the core. I flinched,
eyes snapping shut as the glow illuminated the entire room. The walls, the ceiling, the
f
loor—all flooded with light like dawn had broken inside the flat.
The grimoire's pages fluttered.
I could hear the wards reacting, humming faintly in the background like they were
echoing the spell.
When the light finally dimmed, I opened my eyes.
The compass was still glowing.
Not pulsing wildly—just steady. Calm. Alive.
Like liquid gold was flowing just beneath its surface, shifting and swirling like a heart that
had finally started beating again.
It was ready.
I, on the other hand, was not.
My body gave a full-body shiver, and I swayed where I sat, catching myself at the last
second on the edge of the desk.
"Yep," I muttered, voice raw, "that… was probably not the best idea."
I sank to the floor with a groan, eyes half-lidded, the pulse of the compass still dancing
behind my eyelids.
"If it weren't for the ritual, I think that thing would've sucked me dry."
Everything went quiet again.
Athena hopped down from the bed and curled up beside me, purring low and steady.
I let the weight of the night pull me under, one hand still resting on the glowing compass.
—————————————————————
I didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment the compass had been glowing in my hand, warm and alive—and the next,
I was waking up to darkness.
My body ached like I'd been trampled by a herd of trolls. Twice.
My eyes cracked open, and the compass was still beside me, pulsing quietly, golden
light ebbing in a soft rhythm like it was content now. My hand was still resting against it,
though I couldn't even remember putting my head down.
I must've passed out.
There was a soft pop, and Thornik appeared at the edge of the room. He took a single
step forward, ears perked in that twitchy, too-aware way that meant he'd been waiting.
"How long until sunrise?" I asked, voice rough and barely there.
Thornik blinked once. "One hour and seventeen minutes, Master Cassian."
Right.
I shifted, groaning as every muscle protested the idea of movement. The blanket had
been pulled over me at some point—probably him. I pushed myself up slowly, legs shaky
under me as I stood.
"Wake me thirty minutes before," I said, dragging a hand down my face. "If I don't wake
on my own."
"Thornik will," he nodded.
He hesitated for a moment longer, then held out a small vial—glass, dark blue, faintly
fogged with condensation.
"This is last potion," he said. "Helps Master. Makes Master… full again."
I stared at it for a second, then raised an eyebrow. "You mean magic?"
Thornik tilted his head like the word didn't quite matter. "Yes. That."
I took it with a quiet sigh and downed the contents in one go.
It tasted like cold mint mixed with copper and something vaguely like rosemary. Not
awful. Not pleasant either. But I felt a warm pressure threading into the pit of my
stomach, sparking lightly under my ribs.
Thornik gave a small nod and vanished with another pop, leaving me in the quiet again.
I didn't even bother taking off my robes. Just stumbled over to the bed and collapsed
face-first into the mattress. A second later, I rolled to one side and groaned, pulling the
blanket up to my shoulders, trying to find a position that didn't make me want to scream.
"Okay," I muttered to the room. "Just don't oversleep."
Athena leapt up silently beside me, curled near my side, and rested her head against my
arm.
Ten minutes before the portkey was set to activate, I stood in front of the mirror,
straightening the collar of the dark formal robes I'd pulled from the bag. Rich navy and
silver trim, subtly charmed embroidery curling in faint arcane patterns across the
sleeves. Not too flashy—dignified. Stately.
I looked like I was about to attend a funeral or chair a magical council.
Or both.
The mirror—one of those enchanted types with far too much self-confidence—cleared
its throat delicately before speaking.
"You look presentable, young Master. Polished. Proper. Very… Vaerendral."
I tilted my head at my reflection.
A three-year-old.
In ancient heirloom robes.
With faint steam still rising from his damp hair.
I sighed. "Thanks. I guess."
Honestly, I was still weirded out by the whole shower situation. Trying to reach the sink
had been an adventure on its own. The soap had slipped through my fingers three times.
The shower head was positioned like it belonged in a house of giants, and don't even get
me started on the towel rack. I'd ended up balancing on a stool while nearly slipping to
my death like five times.
Somehow, I survived. Barely.
Now I was clean. Slightly damp.
Dressed like a miniature diplomat. And trying very hard not to think about how surreal
my life had become.
I glanced over at the desk and groaned.
The potions, the grimoire, the compass—everything I'd scattered across the room while
half-conscious last night—it was all still exactly where I'd left it.
Of course it was.
I sighed and started toward it, dragging myself along the floor as I leaned over to gather
the mess. The compass glowed cheerfully like it hadn't nearly drained me to death. I
shook my head and reached for the bag.
Just as I was about to start stuffing everything back in, there was a soft pop behind me.
Thornik appeared again, standing near the edge of the bed with his usual silent poise. He
gave a small nod.
"Is almost time," he said simply.
With a snap of his fingers, the grimoire closed itself and floated neatly into the air,
followed by the compass, the potions I hadn't used, the changes of clothes, and the
carefully wrapped twin wands that had belonged to my parents. The items drifted toward
the open bag one by one, tucking themselves in with more elegance than I could've
managed even fully rested.
The bag sealed with a soft click and hovered beside me, then gently settled into my
hands. The portkey—a length of rough rope, frayed at the ends—floated beside it, bound
with a thin golden thread of magic.
I held both tightly.
Thornik hesitated, his ears twitching just slightly.
"Will Master Cassian return here?"
I glanced around the room.
The bookshelves. The window with the rain-speckled glass. The bed I barely
remembered sleeping in. The flat had been the closest thing to sanctuary since the
Keep. The first place I'd had time to breathe.
But I didn't think I'd be coming back.
"Probably not," I said quietly.
Thornik's ears dropped. "Master Cassian must turn off hiding bubble. Wards cannot
remain without magic. Wardstone will break."
"Right," I muttered. "Of course it would."
He led me back into the living room. I followed, clutching the bag against my chest.
The hearth was cold now, the carpet soft under my feet. I stepped up to the side of the
f
ireplace and reached for the small dragon statue tucked in the corner.
It tilted with a metallic click, just like before. I pulled the iron handle up, and the wall
beside the hearth creaked open, revealing the narrow chamber behind it. The wardstone
still hovered inside, dimmer than before, but pulsing gently with magic.
I looked at Thornik out of the corner of my eye.
"Let me guess—you don't know the incantation to shut it down, do you?"
Thornik shook his head solemnly. "Thornik does not know."
His ears drooped a little more, and I sighed, pulling the grimoire from the bag again. The
pages fluttered without prompt as soon as I whispered, "Deactivation of concealment
wards."
The book responded instantly.
In case of prolonged absence by the heir or household members, especially in magically
dormant locations with no leyline support, the concealment wards must be deactivated
manually. Failure to do so may result in destabilization of the wardstone as its stored
magic depletes without reinforcement. A failing wardstone may crack or shatter,
damaging surrounding magical infrastructure and rendering the property vulnerable.
Because of course it would.
The grimoire's script shimmered faintly, the ink drawn in fine old hand, almost too
elegant to be practical.
Incantation: "Recedere"
Short. Simple. Latin.
I read it once, then stepped into the narrow chamber, the glow of the wardstone washing
my skin in pale blue.
I placed my hand against its surface.
"Recedere" I whispered.
The reaction was immediate.
The magic pulsed beneath my palm, then… pulled back. Like the tide retreating from the
shore. The air grew thinner, stiller, and the faint hum of power that had always lingered
just beneath the surface of the flat disappeared, drawn inward.
The stone dimmed.
The bubble that had surrounded the flat for days—its concealment, its weight, its
silence—recoiled and shrank, as if being packed away into the stone itself.
The veins of light faded, retreating like breath being pulled into lungs.
Thornik stood silently behind me, watching.
I stepped back as the wardstone lost nearly all its color. The once-glowing orb now a
dull, translucent grey.
The wall closed behind me with a faint hiss of air, the room sealing itself again like the
whole thing had never been there.
I turned to Thornik.
"You can go back to your duties," I said softly. "I'll call when I need you."
He gave a short bow.
But I paused, something tugging at the back of my mind.
"I need names," I said suddenly. "Of all the elves who serve the Vaerendral and Fontaine
lines."
He blinked at me.
"Should've asked before," I went on. "I just… there was a lot. I can't keep using the ritual
every time I need to speak with one of you. It'd be rude. Constantly binding you mid-task
with magic like that, especially when I know better now."
Thornik didn't speak right away.
But something shifted in his eyes—something just slightly more than loyalty. A flicker
of… pride?
"Master Cassian," he said quietly, "is worthy of Vaerendral name."
Then he snapped his fingers.
A parchment shimmered into existence midair and floated down toward me, unrolling
slowly. Fifteen names in total. Elegant, clipped writing. Sorted by domain, by location,
and current duty.
I nodded once. "Thank you. You may go."
He gave a tiny bow, the kind that held more weight than a hundred words—and popped
away without another sound.
The flat was quiet again.
I stood there for a breath, then walked toward the window. The curtains were still drawn.
I pulled them aside.
Outside, the edge of the horizon had begun to shift.
Pale light bled into the clouds. The city was still mostly asleep, but the sky had already
begun its slow transformation.
The sun was rising.
The portkey shimmered faintly in my hand.
And then, with a sharp pull and a sudden twist, the world yanked sideways—