The room smelled like old parchment, smoke, and something faintly metallic.
Bookshelves lined the walls, tall and heavy with dust-coated tomes. A dim light flickered
from a floating orb above an aged desk. There were no windows. Just silence, save for
the low crackle of a fire somewhere behind me.
And in the middle of it all—
A man.
He sat in a worn leather chair, spine straight, posture perfect, hands resting on the
armrests like he belonged there. He looked old. Not in the way that meant weakness, but
in the way that meant time bowed to him. Regal. Cold. Sharp around the edges like a
blade left too long in the snow.
His eyes settled on me with careful calculation.
"You're smaller than I expected," he said after a long pause, rising to his feet. He crossed
the room in three slow steps, stopping just short of me.
I didn't know what to say.
Still disoriented from the Portkey, still sore from the magical exhaustion weighing down
my bones, I just blinked at him.
He looked me over—head to toe. His gaze paused at my eyes, narrowed slightly, and
then he asked, calm and direct, "Are you injured?"
I swallowed. "No… just tired."
That was an understatement.
He studied me for another moment, then said flatly, "You're close to magical
exhaustion."
It wasn't a question.
I gave a small nod.
"And where have you been since Samhain?"
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't demand. But the weight of the question hit hard.
"In a flat," I answered. "One of ours. After we were ambushed… my father—he fought off
the abomination and his followers. Vampires. Werewolves. Dark wizards. He gave me a
few things… told me to run. I summoned a House Elf, and he took me to a protected
property in London. There were concealment wards… I hid there."
His expression didn't change. But he gave a single nod.
Then he turned toward the fireplace and snapped his fingers. "Kreacher."
With a pop, the Black family's elf appeared. Gaunt. Scowling. Muttering under his
breath.
"You are to say nothing of today's visitor," Arcturus said coldly. "You will not speak his
name, you will not mention his arrival, nor will you disclose a single detail of this visit to
anyone. Not even to other elves. Understood?"
Kreacher's sneer deepened, but he gave a low, grudging bow. "Yes, Master."
Another pop, and he was gone.
"Sit," Arcturus said, motioning to a smaller chair across from his. I obeyed, sinking into
the leather. It was stiff and smelled like pipe smoke and time.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
"Your father gave me this," he said quietly. "Days before the ritual. He said it was only to
be opened if something happened to him and Seraphine."
He paused.
"One of my grandsons heard whispers after Samhain—rumors that a group of
purebloods were attacked by dark creatures during a private celebration. That nearly all
of them were wiped out. That the Dark Lord was… injured."
Abomination. That's what Father called him. It felt more fitting than ever now.
Arcturus continued. "The Ministry has gone quiet. Their official line is that the attack was
by vampires and werewolves. They didn't mention names. Not a word about the
Vaerendrals."
He glanced at me again.
"I imagine you don't yet understand everything I'm about to say. But your father claimed
you were… an exceptionally clever boy."
I didn't respond. Just waited.
"I've made arrangements for you to leave Britain," he said. "It's not safe here. Your family,
reclusive as they were, had enemies. And what your line has amassed over centuries…
others would kill to control. Artifacts. Gold. Knowledge. Resources—things that could
change the course of the war. Both sides would want you. Or your inheritance."
He unfolded the parchment and laid it on the desk between us. A map. Inked by hand.
Wards etched into the borders.
"Your father gave me this too," he said. "A locator map. Said it would track you if
something went wrong. It has your magical signature."
He shook his head once.
"But I never saw you appear. Not even a flicker. You were completely hidden.
Must've been those concealment wards you mentioned. It wasn't until one of your
House Elves found me that I knew you were still alive. It's good you hid. Very good. The
forces aligned against you are vast—and angry. Vampires lost many of their kind that
night. So did the werewolves. The Dark Lord's followers… he wants revenge. And some of
the pureblood families who lost heirs aren't pleased either."
There was a pause.
"Are you in possession of the compass?"
I reached into my bag and pulled it out. The light pulsed faintly beneath my fingers.
He exhaled softly. "Good. Then you've been given what you need."
He glanced over his shoulder as Kreacher returned with a tray of vials.
The elf dropped them on the table unceremoniously before mumbling something dark
and vanishing again.
I blinked at the empty air where he'd stood. "Your elf is… not like mine."
Arcturus let out something that might've been a sigh. "The House of Black is not what it
once was. And neither is that elf. My daughter-in-law—well, she… left scars. We all have
our burdens."
Arcturus moved behind the desk again, picking up one of the maps. He studied it for a
moment, then rolled it tight and secured it with a thin strip of green ribbon.
"I've made arrangements for you to cross the Channel," he said. "There's a ship that
departs at noon from the southern coast. You won't be alone."
He glanced at me, just briefly.
"Andromeda will meet you there."
I blinked. "Andromeda?"
"My granddaughter," he said curtly. "Disowned by my family. Married a Mudblood, much
to their horror. But she's the most capable of them, by far. She's agreed to help. She'll
escort you onto the ship. Once you reach France, she has a portkey waiting. It will take
you to a secure location in Switzerland."
I swallowed. "Switzerland?"
He tapped the folded map once. "Because it was in the letter. Your father wrote that
once you reached Switzerland, the compass would react. It would guide you to a place
where you'd be safe… and where you'd begin to learn."
I stared down at the glowing object in my hand.
"It's a sanctuary," Arcturus said. "Shielded. Untraceable. Protected by blood magic. No
one can enter except you… and those who share your bloodline."
He met my eyes again.
"I can't leave with you. That would raise questions. But I'll check on you. When I can.
You'll be safer abroad, and with the compass you'll have what you need. At least that's
what your father said in the letter."
Another pause.
"Your father saved my life. More than once. I gave him my word that I'd protect you."
Arcturus made a slight motion toward the tray Kreacher had dropped. "Drink those. All of
them."
I looked at the vials. Pale gold. Silver-blue. One was bubbling faintly.
"They'll help with the magical exhaustion," he added, tone flat. "You won't collapse mid
sentence."
I picked them up one by one. The first tasted like burnt caramel. The second, like chalk
and mint. The third was bitter, and I nearly gagged.
He stood, crossing to one of the windows, his hands behind his back.
He waited until I'd finished before speaking again.
"Have you eaten?" he asked suddenly, not turning around. "Do you need something?
Breakfast?"
I shook my head slowly. Breakfast was the last thing on my mind.
He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder at me. "You just turned three," he said,
voice quieter now. "Far too young… for everything you've survived."
He turned fully now, folding his arms behind his back. "But you are a Vaerendral. And
you will rise above. Just like your father did."
His eyes narrowed slightly. Not unkindly. "The world will not wait for you to grow up. But
it will underestimate you. Let it."
I didn't answer. Just watched him.
"I won't pretend to understand your loss," he went on, "but I knew Edric. And I knew
Seraphine. They died for you, Cassian. That… is not a weight. It's a crown. He left behind
a journal. And your mother did too. He said you'd know how to access them. That the
book and the compass together would be enough. I don't know what that means. But I
hope you do"
Before I could answer , a knock echoed through the room—sharp, deliberate.
Arcturus frowned. "One moment," he said under his breath, then motioned toward me.
"Come here."
I crossed the rug toward him.
He waved a hand, and I felt something strange pass over my skin—cool and buzzing, like
air brushing against invisible glass.
I looked down and froze.
I was still there, but… not. My limbs, my robes, even the tips of my hair shimmered, like
heatwaves rippling off stone. My skin was blending into the surroundings—like I wasn't
even real. Chameleon magic.
"Behind the desk," he said. "Now."
I moved quickly, crouching behind the heavy mahogany as Arcturus turned back toward
the door.
My breath caught the moment Arcturus opened the door to his study.
A voice slipped in from the hallway. Cold. Sharp. Coated in aristocratic venom.
"Father," the woman said, calm and condescending. "I wasn't expecting to find you in
your study so early."
I couldn't see her—not from where I was crouched behind the desk—but something
about her voice made the hairs on my neck rise. It wasn't a kind voice. It wasn't even a
familiar one.
Arcturus's tone turned flat. I could practically hear the exhaustion in it.
"Walburga," he said. "You've arrived unannounced. At my residence."
"I don't need to announce myself to visit family," she replied smoothly. "Or did
something change?"
Her heels clicked against the floor—sharp, slow steps that moved deeper into the room.
She was getting closer. I pressed further into the shadows, feeling the concealment
magic shimmer slightly as I shifted.
Arcturus exhaled. The kind of exhale people do when they're one step away from cursing
someone.
"Why have you come?" he asked, sharper now. "You have never once granted me the
courtesy of pleasantries. What do you want?"
There was a pause. Then her voice dropped—lower, harsher.
"I want that blood-traitor son of mine disowned," she snapped. "I want it made official.
The boy is out there playing hero—defending Mudbloods and Muggles, defying our Lord,
disgracing our family name with every breath he takes. Regulus should be named heir.
He's loyal. Proper. As he should be."
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
Arcturus didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice.
But when he answered, his voice carried more weight than a dozen shouts.
"I said nothing when you blasted him off the tapestry," he said slowly. "Even though that
was not your decision to make."
He stepped further into the room, tone like polished iron.
"To declare my grandson a blood traitor is not your right, Walburga. It is mine. And mine
alone."
Another pause.
"I am still the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
His voice sharpened like a blade drawn clean.
"Not you. Not your husband. Not the mad whisperings of the Dark Lord. Me."
There was a beat of cold silence. Then her voice, clipped and curling.
"I came out of concern for the family's legacy. You'd do well to remember which side we
are meant to stand on."
Arcturus didn't even flinch.
"Come to my home unannounced again," he said, "and I will strip your name from the
wards. Permanently."
The heels turned. Sharper. Faster.
And then, with a final click, the door closed behind her.
The silence that followed was colder than before.
Silence.
But not for long.
Arcturus let out a breath—tight and slow. Then, with a flick of his hand, he snapped his
f
ingers.
There was a faint pop, and Kreacher appeared in the center of the room. His eyes darted
upward warily, but he didn't speak.
Arcturus didn't even look at him.
"You let her in."
Kreacher twitched. "Mistress is keyed into the wards, Master—Kreacher thought—"
"You thought nothing," Arcturus cut in, voice cold as frost. "If you had, you would've
come to me the moment she arrived. Instead, you let her into my home. She walked
through the front door, straight to this study, and knocked without my knowledge. Do you
understand what that means?"
Kreacher flinched, his ears folding back.
"I should have felt her crossing the threshold," Arcturus continued, tone sharp as a
blade. "But I didn't. Because you let her in."
Kreacher sank to the floor with a soft whimper. "Master is right… Kreacher failed…"
Arcturus didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You will punish yourself. And you will do so thoroughly. If it happens again—if anyone
enters this house without my express permission, regardless of their access—I will
remove your tongue and give you clothes. Am I understood?"
Kreacher whimpered, bowing lower, nearly kissing the floor. "Yes, Master. Kreacher
hears and obeys…"
Arcturus waved him off, and the elf vanished with another crack.
Only then did he speak again, quieter this time.
"You can come out now."
I rose from behind the desk, still half-shimmering from the concealment charm. As soon
as I moved fully into the open, the spell dispersed, the magic peeling off me like mist.
He looked down at me, eyes tired—not with age, but with restraint. And something else.
Regret, maybe.
"I apologize," he said, voice even. "You shouldn't have had to see that… not from me,
and certainly not from her."
I didn't say anything. Just nodded, slow.
"She's family, by blood," he added. "But that doesn't make her worthy of the name."
He turned then, gesturing for me to follow.
We stepped out of the study and into a wide, wood-paneled hallway. Tall windows lined
the far wall, thick curtains drawn halfway open, letting in grey morning light. The floors
creaked beneath our steps—polished, but old.
The house held weight, old portraits, silent wards humming faintly in the corners,
sconces that flickered without flame—but it wasn't hostile. It felt… private. Walled off.
Like it was a place people didn't enter unless they were meant to.
We walked down a set of stairs, then through another corridor, where Arcturus stopped
before a side room. Not quite a dressing room, but close enough. A long mirror stood
near the door, and beside it, an old-fashioned coat rack. He stepped inside, grabbed a
dark cloak from a high peg, and shrugged it over his shoulders with practiced ease.
Then he turned to me and extended his hand.
"Take it," he said.
I hesitated, eyes flicking from his face to his outstretched palm.
"Where are we going?" I asked quietly.
His expression shifted—just slightly. The hard lines in his face deepened.
"I've made arrangements," he said. "Your parents' bodies… they've been preserved."
My stomach tightened.
"Stasis charms," he continued. "Ironwood coffins, enchanted locks. Protected against
blood rituals, desecration, theft. I pulled favors from every corner of the law to make it
happen. Because there are many ways to dishonor the dead in our world… and your
family deserves better."
The weight of it hit hard. I didn't know what to say. Didn't know what I could say.
"Do you know anything about your family's crypt?" he asked then. "Its location? Its
access protocols?"
I shook my head. "No… but I can find out."
He gave a short nod.
"Good," he said. "Then find it. And when you do, learn the funeral rites. Your father
would've wanted them done properly."
He stepped closer, wrapping the cloak tighter around his shoulders.
"Andromeda will meet us at the morgue. I'll introduce you once we're there. I know this
is a lot to ask of you…"
He paused. Looked me in the eyes.
"But this matters. This is important, Cassian. You understand that, don't you?"
I nodded, slowly. My voice was too caught in my throat to answer.
"Good," he said, quieter now. "Then let's go."
The moment we landed, the air changed.
It was colder here. Not freezing—but still, the kind of cold that settled in your bones. The
kind of cold you didn't feel on your skin so much as in your chest.
I blinked as Arcturus steadied me with one hand. We stood just outside an old stone
building, narrow windows, iron-framed, and a sloping slate roof darkened by years of
weather. There was no sign. No lanterns. No wards that I could see—but I could feel
them.
They hung heavy around the place, humming low and slow, like they were breathing in
their sleep.
"Come," Arcturus said, voice softer now, but steady. "We won't be long."
I followed him up the short steps. The door creaked open at the barest touch.
Inside, the world felt… still. Too still. Stone floors. Pale walls. Dim, floating lights along
the ceiling, moving slow like mist under glass. I could smell faint herbs. Lavender,
maybe. Rosemary. Something sharp—metallic.
A man stood behind a wide desk just past the entrance, robes simple, but lined with
silver thread. His face was unreadable, but his eyes watched closely.
"May I help you?" he asked. "Names of the deceased and your relation?"
Arcturus didn't answer immediately. He raised his hand, and with a flick of magic, the
Black family ring shimmered into view on his finger.
"I am Lord Arcturus Black," he said. Then he gestured toward me. "This is Cassian Edric
Vaerendral, son of Edric Vaerendral and Seraphine Fontaine de Vaerendral."
The man straightened slightly.
"We are here to oversee the rites for their transfer," Arcturus continued. "To the family
crypt."
The worker's gaze slid toward me, eyebrows creasing slightly. "He's… very young," he
said. "Is he… of age to handle—?"
Arcturus's expression sharpened. "Mind your business," he said coolly. "And take us
there. Now."
The man swallowed and nodded once. "Of course… right this way."
We followed him through two long hallways, past rooms with thick stone doors and
f
lickering rune-lit frames. The deeper we went, the quieter it became. The walls
absorbed sound. Even our footsteps were muffled.
Eventually, the man stopped before a carved door of dark ironwood. Runes etched deep
into its surface glowed faintly.
"These chambers are protected by bloodline wards," he said, voice lower now. "Only
immediate family can enter. He—" the man nodded at me, "—should be able to pass."
My fingers twitched.
I stepped forward.
My hand touched the iron handle, cool and smooth. A pulse of something ran through
me—like warm water meeting stone. The magic flowed over my skin, under it, through it.
And the door creaked open.
"I'll wait outside," Arcturus said behind me. "If you need me—call."
The worker gave a small bow of his head. "My condolences, Master Vaerendral."
Then they were gone.
And I stepped into the chamber.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that pressed on your skin, heavy and dense, like it was trying to bury
you along with the dead.
In the center of the chamber, two long stone tables. Two bodies.
Both covered in white cloth.
I couldn't see their faces. Just the shapes beneath the fabric. The outlines of them.
Familiar and terrifying.
Something cold cracked in my chest.
The numbness that had wrapped itself around me these last few days—dull and
smothering—began to split apart. And what spilled in its place was something I couldn't
hold back. Not this time.
A soft flutter came from behind me.
Athena leapt from the bag at my back. She landed lightly, padding across the floor. Her
cloud-haze paws made no sound as she came up beside me.
She looked at me, head tilted, then jumped up into my arms.
I held her close.
I didn't move for a while. Just stood there. Staring.
Eventually, I stepped forward.
The tables looked too tall. And I was too small.
I walked to the side. There, against the wall, was a chair. I wrapped my arms around it
and pushed.
And blinked.
It moved easier than I expected—smooth, like it wasn't even heavy. I hadn't noticed it
before, but… my strength. It wasn't normal for someone my age. I should've struggled.
But I didn't.
Still. That wasn't what mattered right now.
I climbed up onto the chair, shifting Athena to my shoulder as I reached for the cloth.
The first one.
My father.
I peeled back the white fabric slowly. My hands shook.
He looked… cold. Pale. But peaceful.
The blood was gone. His face was clean. His skin still held that slight golden warmth that
never came from the sun.
My throat burned.
I turned to the other side.
Pulled the cloth down again.
My mother.
Her curls were tucked neatly. Her lips closed like she was only asleep. Not a single
wound. No mark.
Just stillness.
And I broke.
I didn't scream. I didn't sob loudly.
I just… cried.
Quiet, shaking, until the tears stopped coming and I couldn't feel my face anymore.
Athena curled against my side, silent and warm.
Eventually, I wiped my face with my sleeve. My arms trembled as I reached into the bag,
f
ingers brushing familiar leather.
The grimoire.
I placed it on the table in front of me, pressing both palms to its cover.
"I need to know," I whispered, voice hoarse. "Funeral rites. Vaerendral. Fontaine. And…
family crypts."
The book glowed softly beneath my hands.
Then it began to open.
Page after page turned in a rush, before settling in the middle—glowing with soft silver
blue light.
The page shimmered faintly under my fingers, like it was breathing.
Ink rose up from the parchment—neat, curved, slightly slanted handwriting. It didn't feel
like a spellbook. It felt like a voice. Like someone from long ago was speaking softly, just
for me.
"In the Houses of Vaerendral and Fontaine, death is met not with despair, but with duty.
The departed must be honored in the ways of their blood. Each line carries rites—
ancient and binding. They must be performed. They must be respected."
I swallowed. My hand trembled slightly as I turned the page. The left page reads:
"The Rites of Farewell — House Vaerendral"
"To be performed in the presence of one of blood.
The grimoire must lie beside the vessel. The sigil of the House must be anointed with a
drop of blood from the line.
The following words must be spoken to begin the Departure Rite. It honors legacy, grants
rest, and releases bonds of lingering magic."
The words were written in deep, slanted runes, then translated beneath in the family
script.
"Vade in lumen, fili domus.
Memoria tua manet, et in silentio requiescas.
Hoc sanguine te dimitto. Hoc verbo te honoramus."
(Go into the light, child of the House.
Your memory remains, and in silence may you rest.
With this blood, I release you. With this word, we honor you.)
Below the chant, another passage:
"Burial must be performed by the Crypt-Keeper—a bonded elf of the House.
The Keeper holds the right of passage and sanctifies the body with binding magic. A
close blood-relative must be present or invoked to anchor the soul's path. This offers
peace. This seals the rite."
The right Page reads:
"The Passing of Spirit — House Fontaine"
"For the line of Fontaine, the soul must be unbound gently.
A silverleaf, enchanted by blood, shall be placed between the brows of the departed.
When ready, it shall burn of its own accord.
A chant, in the ancient tongue, will guide the spirit onward."
The script shimmered faintly, smoother, more graceful.
The chant was written in a softer font. Almost a whisper.
Lissë na náre, sîla nîn.
Caure na vilya, le melme le híra.
Túva na galad. Elya nárië.
(Sweet is the flame, shining soul.
Drift to the skies, our love will find you.
Rest in the light. Your journey is complete.)
Below the chant:
"The ritual may be performed by kin or a soul-attendant of the House.
Water blessed with elvish herbs must anoint the heart and brow.
The spirit, once released, may linger briefly before fading fully."
I closed the grimoire slowly, heart pounding, the quiet around me stretching long.
Then I remembered the parchment.
The one Thornik gave me at the flat—names of the elves still bound to both lines.
I opened it again, hands unsteady. My eyes scanned the neat list.
Two names stood out:
Bilm– Keeper of Tombs, House Vaerendral
Ellivy – Ritual Attendant, House Fontaine
I whispered their names.
There were two soft pops, the magic gentle.
Before me stood two elves – Bilm a male elf in slate-gray robes lined with silver thread.
His ears were long and slightly curled at the tip, his posture proud.
Ellivy, her green eyes calm and robes soft, traced with winding vine patterns and a
shimmer of silver leaf.
Both bowed at once.
"Master Cassian," Bilm said softly. "We have been waiting to be called."
"Ellivy is sorry, Master Cassian. Their passing is honored, it is. Ellivy has already made
the things ready, just like old ways say, sir."
"I want them buried properly," I said. "The way it's supposed to be done. I can't… get to
the crypt. The castle is sealed. I don't know how to open it yet."
Bilm inclined his head low, ears twitching slightly. "It is known, young Master Cassian.
Bilm is the Keeper of Tombs, yes he is. Bilm is bound to the wards, can pass where
others cannot. We will take them, sir. Bilm will do all that must be done, just as old laws
say."
Ellivy gave a small bow, her voice soft and sure. "The rites, they will be done proper,
Master Cassian."
I nodded.
They bowed again. And with a soft crack, they vanished. Silence returned to the
chamber.
Then a knock sounded, followed by a deep Voice.
"Cassian?" came Arcturus's voice through the door. "Are you alright?"
walked to the door.
My steps were slow, my chest still tight. I rubbed at my face with my sleeve—wiping
away what tears hadn't dried already. My fingers lingered near my eyes for a second
longer than necessary, like maybe I could press the grief back in.
Then I opened the door.
Arcturus stood on the other side, still as stone. His eyes scanned my face—not with pity,
but with that kind of quiet calculation that somehow didn't feel cold.
"I… figured it out," I said, voice softer than I expected. Hollow, even to my own ears. "The
rites. The rituals. Both sides."
He didn't speak. He waited.
"I called two house-elves from the list. Bilp and Ellivy. They're… they're the ones who
handle these things. For the families. They'll take care of everything. The rituals. The
burial. The crypt."
I swallowed. "They've already gone to prepare."
My voice cracked a little at the end. Not enough to shatter me. Just enough to remind me
it still hurt.
Arcturus gave a short nod.
"Well done," he said quietly. "That's more than most could have managed."
The coffins stood side by side.
New. Dark wood polished to a muted shine, etched with deep carvings that shimmered
faintly in the low light. The seals of both lines—Vaerendral and Fontaine—had been
carved into the lids in silver and iron, each glowing softly with dormant magic.
They looked regal. Cold. Final.
I took a step closer.
Ellivy and Bilm had finished their work. The bodies were wrapped, preserved, and placed
within the vessels according to rite. They stood off to the side now, silent and still,
waiting.
Bilm approached me, arms held forward.
In his hands, resting on a dark velvet cloth, was a dagger. Ritualistic. Thin and curved,
with a hilt wrapped in grey leather and runes etched along the blade's edge.
I reached out with both hands and took it.
The weight was more symbolic than heavy. But it was still enough to make my fingers
tense.
I turned the blade slightly, pressed it to the tip of my left index finger, and sliced.
Just a shallow cut.
Blood welled up instantly. Bright. Warm.
I stepped toward the first coffin—my father's—and let a single drop fall onto the
Vaerendral crest.
The metal sigil flared, pulsing with light, before fading back to stillness.
Then I moved to my mother's coffin, repeating the motion. The blood hit the Fontaine
seal, and that, too, lit up for a breath before dying down.
Both coffins now glowed faintly, the magic sealing them shut.
Final.
I stood there a moment longer.
I could feel Arcturus behind me, a few paces back. Not speaking. Giving me space.
My throat felt tight. I didn't trust it to hold steady if I spoke too loudly.
So I whispered.
I meant to say something simple.
"May you rest in peace."
But the words caught in my throat.
And then something else came.
Not mine.
Older.
Woven into me, maybe.
"Nai eleni siluvar antalyannar…"
The syllables fell from my lips like a song I'd always known but never learned. My voice
was soft—hoarse—but steady.
"Á lumna na cirien, essë na lómelindi.
Lómië ná Elenya, nárë teni ontariel.
Á cennë, ar varya… aistana úvë ná. Elenillor ve rámar, tultien i lúmë."
The magic in the air shifted—warm, quiet, old.
I instinctively know what it all meant.
May the stars shine upon your souls.
Be gentle in your crossing, named by twilight song.
Night is a star, and flame guide magic's path.
See, and guard—this blessing is sorrow-bound.
From the stars like wings, your time has come to return.
My blood speaking for me when I couldn't find the words.
The light around the crests faded, leaving only silence behind.
I pressed a hand lightly to the wood.
"Goodbye," I whispered.
Then I stepped back, and the elves moved forward to take them home.
stepped back.
The silence stretched around me like breath held too long.
Then, with a soft pop, both the coffins—and the elves—vanished.
Gone.
Taken home.
A hand rested gently on my head. Arcturus.
He didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then:
"What language were you speaking just now?"
I blinked.
"I… I don't know." My voice was quiet. Honest. "When I opened my mouth, I meant to say
goodbye. But the words just… spilled out. I didn't think. I just… knew what they meant."
Arcturus didn't answer right away. His hand lingered a moment longer, then dropped to
his side. His expression had shifted—somber, and something else… not fear, but
wariness.
"Never repeat those words," he said at last, his voice low. "Not to anyone you do not
trust with your life. Do you understand me?"
I nodded slowly.
"Those weren't just words, Cassian. You invoked something ancient. Older than
anything I fully understand. And likely… older than I ever will."
He turned then, eyes landing on a mounted clock on the far wall.
A soft frown.
"We have to go." His tone was back to neutral now. Quiet urgency beneath noble calm.
I followed him without a word, the soles of my shoes quiet against the stone.
We passed back through the long corridor, down a narrow flight of stairs that creaked
faintly underfoot, and into the main reception hall.
The man who had let us in earlier was still seated at his desk.
He didn't look up immediately, just turned a page in the thick book in front of him—until
he noticed us. Then he gave a slow, respectful nod.
My eyes lingered on him for a second longer than they should have.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just watched us pass.
The cold air hit my face like a breath I hadn't meant to take once we were outside.
Arcturus glanced down at me as we moved forward, cloak pulled tighter against the
breeze.
"Everyone who works there is oath-bound," he said quietly. "They honor the dead.
Protect the remains. And they are sworn to silence."
He paused.
"If they speak of what they've seen, of who they've seen, or anything at all that crosses
those halls… their lives are forfeit."
I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing.
He stretched out his hand.
I looked at it for only a moment before I reached out and took it.
A sharp crack split the air. And the world twisted.