There was a loud crack, followed by a sudden lurch in my stomach.
We apparated onto old, weather-worn cobblestone—lined with iron posts, a faint glow of
enchantments humming through them. The air smelled of salt and old wood. Sea breeze
tugged at my robes. We were at a dock. But not a muggle one.
This place… it wasn't even visible from outside, I realized. Not by normal means. Everything
about it hummed magic. Not the playful, warm kind. No, this was old magic. Wards that
warned you not to step out of line. A dock used by the kind of wizards who didn't like the
Ministry poking around in their business.
And there, anchored at the far edge, stood a ship that made me forget how to breathe for a
moment.
A towering Victorian vessel, sails billowing in wind that didn't exist, dark hull carved with
runes that shimmered faintly in the light of the rising sun. Every inch of it reeked of
enchantment—concealment, warding, protection. I didn't even need to reach out to feel it.
The ship radiated presence. The kind of thing that made other ships look away in shame.
I just… stared. Jaw very nearly unhinged.
When Arcturus had said "ship," I'd thought he meant one of those noisy, ugly muggle ferries.
Maybe with plastic benches and terrible sandwiches. Not… this.
He noticed. Of course he did.
I heard a soft chuckle beside me.
"I take it you approve?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
I didn't even respond. Still busy gaping.
A rustle of fabric and footsteps broke my trance. A woman approached from the direction of
the ship—dark cloak flowing behind her, hair like rich honey bound up in a twist. She moved
with purpose, like someone who didn't have time to waste on ceremony.
And then she saw Arcturus.
She smiled. "Grandfather."
She leaned in and hugged him.
To his credit, he didn't hex her.
"I've told you before," he grumbled, stiff as a board. "Etiquette, Andromeda. Just because you
married below your station does not mean you must act like it."
Andromeda sighed. "It's just a hug, old man."
Still, she pulled back. But not far. There was something warm in her gaze, even if he'd sooner
dive off the dock than admit he appreciated it.
Then her eyes landed on me.
They lit up immediately.
"Oh, look at you," she gasped, crouching down with a grin and grabbing my face before I
could protest. "Aren't you just—adorable!"
What. Was. Happening.
Her hands were on my face, pinching my cheeks like I was some kind of puffskein, cooing
over how small and cute I was.
"Please stop assaulting my face," I mumbled, eyes wide.
There was nothing wrong with her smile or her tone—she wasn't doing anything wrong—but
something inside me recoiled. My arms stayed rigid at my sides. My jaw tightened.
I wasn't used to this.
Not anymore.
Not since everything happened.
I wasn't just a toddler with big blue eyes and a too-small frame. I wasn't just a grieving child.
I had lived already. Grown. Loved. Lost. I remembered it all. Not in vague impressions or
flickers of feeling, but in full, crystal-clear detail. I remembered my old name, my old voice,
the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. The pain of disappointment. The hollow sting of
betrayal. My twenty-something self was crammed behind the eyes of a three-year-old boy,
and no one could see it.
She blinked, pulled back, and gave me a sheepish smile. "Sorry, force of habit. I have a five
year-old, you know. Comes with the job."
"Not an excuse," I muttered.
Arcturus cleared his throat. "The ship departs at noon. It won't dock in Calais. It will slow
just enough for the both of you to disembark. The crew will provide a rowboat. The Noctua—
" he motioned toward the massive vessel, "—is enchanted. Concealed. Immune to most
tracking spells."
Andromeda nodded. "And in France?"
"There's a man in Paris," Arcturus replied, pulling a folded parchment from his coat and
handing it to her. "He owes me. He'll arrange a portkey for you both. It'll take you to
Switzerland."
He turned his gaze to me now. "From there, Cassian, the compass will guide you."
I nodded slowly. My fingers brushed against the bag slung over my shoulder.
Andromeda looked down at me, brushing a bit of lint off my cloak. "You all packed? Need
anything?"
I just pointed to my bag.
She nodded, smiling again, but Arcturus was already turning away.
"Don't move from this spot," he called back to me.
I stayed rooted where I was, watching as he and Andromeda stepped a few feet away. He
leaned down to whisper something into her ear. Her face fell. I saw her eyes shimmer a little.
He handed her something—probably galleons or a pouch of emergency items—and then
returned to me.
He crouched, adjusting the clasp on my cloak.
"When you reach that safe place, use the compass. Contact me. I'll come if I can." He paused.
"If you need anything—anything—you have my word."
I didn't know what to say. So I just nodded.
With a final nod to Andromeda, he straightened—and disappeared with a crack.
Andromeda let out a breath.
"Well," she said, taking my hand, "let's get you on board, little heir."
The sea was calm, but my nerves weren't.
We were an hour into the crossing. The Noctua moved smoother than it should have for a ship
that old. Enchantments, obviously. Runes I couldn't read lined the hull. Every surface
whispered old magic.
I wasn't on deck.
I'd slipped away to the small room they'd given me the moment Andromeda started trying to
fluff my pillow and ask if I wanted warm milk.
Warm milk. Honestly.
I didn't dislike her—she seemed kind—but the hovering was getting under my skin. Maybe if
I'd really been three, I would've clung to her robes. But I wasn't. Not really.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the bag tucked at my side. Athena was curled beside
me, her tail flicking slowly. She didn't meow—just watched.
In my hand, I turned the compass over and over.
The metal was cool, the glass face warm.
It pulsed softly with light.
I'd barely had a second to think since Arcturus gave me the go-ahead. First the funeral. Then
the goodbye. Then this ship. I hadn't had the space to breathe, let alone press the damned
button.
But here I was. Alone. In a quiet room. No one watching. No one asking.
And the compass was glowing again.
I stared at it for a moment.
"If you explode in my face," I muttered, "I'm going to haunt my entire bloodline."
Athena blinked slowly, like she wasn't impressed with my dramatics.
I swallowed. My thumb hovered over the tiny, faintly etched rune on the center of the glass.
"Here goes nothing."
And I pressed it.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then—
Light.
A soft, whitish-blue glow bloomed from the compass like mist, coiling upward and spiraling
in the air in front of me. I scrambled backward, nearly knocking Athena off the bed. She
hissed in annoyance and darted to the headboard.
The light pulsed, shimmering, folding inward.
Condensing and taking shape.
A figure began to form, standing just a few feet away. Humanoid, faintly translucent, but solid
in presence. I couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
The air in the room shifted—thicker, tingling with magic.
Something ancient had just stepped into the room with me.
The figure solidified—still glowing faintly, still made of light—but distinct.
It looked… like a man.
Not really a ghost. Certainly not a memory.
But it reminded me of something.
The way it hovered just slightly off the floor, glowing faintly, translucent yet real. The way it
didn't move—just was. It looked like that Horcrux version of Tom Riddle from the films.
And that thought terrified me.
You definitely shouldn't have pressed the button.
I tightened my grip on the compass, but it didn't respond. The light didn't change. The
glowing figure remained, steady and strong. Watching me—or at least, facing me. I couldn't
even tell if it had eyes.
"Okay," I muttered, voice dry. "Now would be a good time for you to say something."
And suddenly, the glow wasn't just light anymore. It had a shape—solid and still. The air in
the room seemed to thicken, like magic itself was holding its breath.
He looked… regal.
Old, but not frail. His long hair shimmered silver-white, and his beard was braided with cords
I didn't recognize. His robes—deep grey, edged in silver and embroidered in a style I'd only
seen once, in the Archives illustrations—hung from his shoulders like weight and legacy.
The figure opened his eyes. Pale silver, like tempered steel. They scanned the room—slowly,
thoughtfully—until they rested on me.
"Quis vocavit me?"
The words were clear, but not modern. Not entirely foreign either.
Who has summoned me?
I tightened my grip on the compass.
"Ego… Cassian sum," I said slowly, uncertainly. "Cassian Edric Vaerendral."
A pause. His gaze sharpened, studying me.
"Nomen Vetustum… Sanguis manet igneus."
An old name… The blood still burns bright.
Then a pause. His brow furrowed.
"Quod est hoc tempus? Quis annus est?"
What is this time? What year is it?
"Anno Domini millesimo nongentesimo septuagesimo octavo," I replied.
His frown deepened.
"Anno Domini?"
I hesitated, trying to find the words.
"Post… nativitatem Christi. Figura religiosa… est longa historia."
After… the birth of Christ. A religious figure… it's a long story.
His brow knit further.
"Christus…?"
Silence settled between us like a veil.
Then he asked—
"Et Graecia? Et Delphi? Regnatne adhuc? Quae est consularis potestas? Ubi est mensura
temporis?"
And Greece? And Delphi? Do they still rule? What consul governs? How is time now
measured?
I swallowed, unsure where to begin.
"Graecia… manet, sed non ut olim. Imperium… periit. Roma etiam. Multa mutata sunt. Est…
difficile explicare."
Greece… remains, but not as it once was. The Empire… is gone. Rome too. A lot has
changed. It's… hard to explain.
He looked at me then—really looked—and for a moment, the ancient quiet between us felt
like the pause before thunder.
"Habesne Codicem?"
I blinked.
"Codicem?"
"Sanguinis Memoriam. Tabulas Sapientiae. Librum Arcanorum. Vinctum Pergameno Nigro et
Argento."
The Memory of the Blood. The Tablets of Wisdom. The Book of Arcana. Bound in black and
silver parchment.
My breath caught.
"Oh… the grimoire," I muttered. Of course. Codex. Memory. The damn book.
I nodded once and walked over to the bag sitting on the edge of the bed. My fingers brushed
against the familiar weight of the grimoire, cool and silent as ever. When I pulled it out, the
cover shimmered faintly in response, like it knew it was being watched.
I turned back to the figure.
His eyes followed the book in my hand, and though his expression didn't change much,
something about his posture did. Straighter. Sharper. More… present.
"Portasti illud. Bene."
You have carried it. Good.
Then, quieter, like he was speaking to himself:
"Sanguis manet. Vinculum non fractum est."
The blood remains. The bond is unbroken.
Altharion tilted his head slightly, his pale eyes locking on the grimoire in my hands. Then,
slowly, he raised one hand and made a sweeping motion through the air.
The grimoire lifted from my fingers before I could react — weightless, like the air itself had
caught it. It floated toward him, pages rustling softly, though there was no wind in the cabin.
The figure extended his hand and let his fingers brush the cover.
The moment he touched it, the book blazed to life.
A surge of white-blue light spilled out from both him and the tome, swirling like mist caught
in moonlight. The air grew heavier, denser, crackling with something I didn't have a name
for. Magic, yes — but old magic. The kind that felt like it remembered you.
Altharion's form shifted. Became more… real. Less a vision and more a presence. His
features sharpened, the lines of his face becoming clearer, more defined. If he hadn't still been
floating above the floor — and softly glowing like a dying star — he would've passed for an
actual man standing in the room.
He closed his eyes, murmuring something in a language I didn't recognize. It wasn't Latin. It
wasn't Greek. It wasn't even Elvish. Just… older. The kind of tongue that probably hadn't
been spoken aloud in centuries. Maybe millennia.
The grimoire answered. Runes pulsed across its cover, flickering like heartbeat pulses of
silver fire.
Then silence.
The light dimmed. Altharion opened his eyes again. This time, there was something different
in them — not surprise, not confusion… but recognition. Understanding. And maybe just the
faintest edge of sorrow.
He didn't speak yet.
And I didn't dare to break whatever spell had just unfolded.
The light between them faded, but the connection remained. I could feel it — something
invisible stretching from the compass to the grimoire to… him. Like a current beneath the
surface.
Altharion's gaze stayed locked on the grimoire a moment longer, his hand still resting against
its cover. Then he exhaled — not a breath, not truly, but something like it — and looked back
at me.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Still deep, still calm, but now it carried the
rhythm of my own time.
English.
"I am bound to the grimoire," the figure said at last, his voice low and steady, like the kind of
wind that swept through ancient halls. "Not a ghost. Not a memory. My soul — whole and
unbroken — resides within the Compass of Altharion. I gave it freely, at the end of my life. A
different path than the one your history books whisper of. I did not cling to life through
fragments or defilement."
His eyes shimmered faintly with that soft blue-white glow, the same as the compass.
"This… is preservation. Not of flesh, but of purpose. I was meant to guide the line in their
greatest hour of need. And I have not been summoned often. That you have… is telling."
He turned slightly, reaching out with one hand. The grimoire hovered to him, pages still
thrumming with faint magic.
"I am Altharion Vaerendral. First Guardian. Founder of the Archive. One of the three who
forged this book, and wrote its heart in blood and vow."
He let the grimoire rest in the air beside him and turned his attention back to me.
"I have not yet delved deep into what has been added since my time. The Vaults are vast, and
knowledge flows fast when one is bound to it… but even so, it takes more than a breath." His
gaze sharpened. "Only a soul strong enough to endure can bear such weight all at once."
He stepped closer. His voice grew quiet.
"You are but a child. Barely past your first years. Why are you alone? Why are the Compass
and the Codex in your hands — and not guarded, as they should be? Where are the others of
your line?"
My throat tightened. My fingers trembled slightly around the compass, warm with leftover
magic. "I think I'm the last," I whispered.
His face didn't change. But the light around him dimmed just a little.
"My parents," I said, "Edric and Seraphine. They performed a ritual on me. On Samhain."
His brow furrowed faintly. I saw the flicker of recognition before I even finished.
"I turned three that night. The ritual… it drained them. Weakened them. And then we were
attacked. Vampires. Werewolves. Dark wizards. Death Eaters. The Abomination."
I didn't say his name. I didn't need to.
"They fought," I said quietly. "They held them off. But they didn't survive."
I looked down at the compass.
"My father gave this to me… said when it glowed, I should press it. That it would lead me to
safety."
Altharion said nothing for a long moment. But I could feel the shift in the air. Like the ancient
foundations of something settling.
"Samhain," he said at last, softly. "Born of magic. Cloaked in death. I know the rite."
His voice had dropped to a murmur, like a chant remembered in the back of the mind.
"That ritual… it is older than most remember. Older than any grimoire still speaks of. It is not
mere magic — it is rebirth by design."
Then he looked at me — properly, intensely. And I felt the air still between us.
"Tell me," he said, "do your eyes see more than most? Do spells come quicker than they
should? Does your magic respond to your emotion, your will?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"Do you dream," he said softly, "of a life you haven't lived? Of words you shouldn't know?
Do you hear voices when you sleep?"
My breath hitched.
Because yes.
Yes, I had.
But I hadn't told anyone.
Altharion's gaze lingered for a moment longer — sharp, knowing — but he didn't press.
"Trust," he said, voice low, almost distant, "is not forged in moments."
The light around him pulsed once, faintly.
"I will not ask again. Not yet."
He turned slightly, glancing around the small room, and I suddenly remembered just how
ridiculous this must all look to him — the wooden walls, the metal fixtures, the creaking of
ship timbers that had been carved from trees long after his lifetime ended.
"Where… are we?" he asked.
I blinked, trying to find words that would make sense to someone who hadn't seen the world
in over two thousand years.
"We're on a ship," I said slowly. "Sailing from Britain. Southward."
He raised an eyebrow. I rephrased. "From the isles. Albion, if that makes more sense to you."
A subtle nod.
"We're crossing the channel. To a land that was once called Gaul. France, now. Our
destination is Helvetia. The Alps — the mountains in the center of the continent. What people
now call Switzerland."
His expression didn't change much. But I saw the way his eyes narrowed, the way the lines of
his face pulled slightly in thought.
Of course. That kind of time… I couldn't imagine what it felt like. To ask what land we stood
on, only to learn the names had changed, empires had crumbled, borders redrawn and redrawn
again.
I rubbed the back of my neck and muttered, mostly to myself, "Studying history at Cambridge
really does come in handy."
"What is… Cambridge?" Altharion asked.
"A place of learning," I replied. "A school. A very large and very old one." Then I paused.
"Though not as old as you, probably."
He gave a faint huff at that — it might've been a laugh, though it sounded more like a dusty
wind catching on old stone.
Then the glow around him shifted slightly. His presence seemed to settle — not entirely
human, but… more grounded than before.
"I will need time," he said at last. "The knowledge in the Codex — it stretches far beyond
what even I imagined. This line has endured."
Something flickered in his eyes again. Pride, maybe. Grief.
"But knowledge means nothing without wisdom. And you are still… young."
"Thanks," I muttered. "Really needed the reminder."
He tilted his head. "You speak like one older than your years."
"I will not remain long this time," he said. "The compass holds power, but not endlessly. And
you need rest."
I nodded once.
But I couldn't look away from him.
A literal ancestor. A founder. A piece of living history — even if it wasn't exactly life.
There was so much I wanted to ask. Too much.
But I could feel the magic already beginning to dim. The glow around him flickering slightly.
"Will I see you again?" I asked, voice quiet.
Altharion didn't respond immediately. His gaze shifted — distant now, as if he could already
feel the call of the compass drawing him back.
"Time is short," he said at last, his voice low, the edges of it beginning to waver like wind
through mist. "The compass draws deeply to allow this form. It must replenish before I can
return. Soon, it will fall silent again."
I nodded slowly, fingers curling slightly around the still-warm metal in my palm.
He looked past me then, through the wood of the ship's walls, as if he could see the
mountains already.
"You travel to what is now called Switzerland," he murmured, tasting the name like it was
foreign on his tongue. "Then you are headed for the fortress. That… is good."
He turned his eyes back to me.
"It is a place of old magic. Harsh. Cold. But it will serve you well. There, you may begin to
learn what it means to be Vaerendral. What it means to carry the legacy in your veins."
The glow around him began to fray, strands of light unraveling like threads pulled from cloth.
And then, in a breath, the light folded inward, drawing him back into the compass like mist
curling into itself. One final pulse thudded against my fingers, soft as a heartbeat.
The room was quiet again.
Athena let out a soft meow from the bed. She blinked at me like she knew everything that had
just happened — and wasn't quite sure if I could handle it.
I exhaled, my shoulders sagging. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath.
Before I could slump back onto the bed, the door burst open with a snap.
"Cassian?" Andromeda's voice rang out, sharp, startled. Her wand was drawn. "What
happened?! I felt—there was magic—so much magic in here. I couldn't open the door. Even
with spells."
I blinked at her, still slightly dazed.
"It was—" I paused, scrambling for something that wouldn't sound completely insane. "It was
the one who'll… guide me. In Switzerland."
I glanced at the compass still in my hand. The metal was cool again.
"It's… a family secret," I said lamely, praying she'd leave it at that.
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, but then she gave a slow nod. Pure-blood raised. She'd been
around secrets her whole life. Ones you didn't press unless invited.
"Alright," she said softly. "As long as you're okay."
"I'm just tired," I muttered, already crawling toward the bed. "I need to sleep a little."
Andromeda gave a small smile, her wand lowering. "Then sleep, little lord. You've earned it."
She closed the door gently behind her.
I curled onto my side, Athena pressing in close.
————————————————
A quiet knock rapped against the door. I blinked awake at the sound.
"We're almost there," Andromeda said as she pushed the door open just a crack. Her voice
was gentle, not like earlier when she barged in like a banshee. "We'll have to get up on deck
soon."
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, nodding sluggishly. "Alright."
She stepped inside a little more, her eyes drifting toward the bed—toward Athena, who was
still curled up beside me, completely dead to the world. Literally snoring.
Andromeda tilted her head, curiosity lighting her face.
"This is Athena," I said, reaching out to stroke behind her ears. She didn't even stir. "A gift
from my parents. She was just a tiny kitten when I got her."
Athena made a soft murring sound, barely lifting her head before tucking it deeper into her
paws. I smiled faintly. Lazy thing.
"She's… special," I added, though I wasn't sure what that meant yet.
I reached for my bag and opened it carefully, setting her inside atop the spare clothes. She
didn't complain, just yawned once, curled into herself again, and went right back to sleep like
nothing had happened.
Lucky cat.
I hopped off the bed, the wooden floor cool beneath my socks. I pulled on the jacket
Andromeda had laid out for me earlier — thick, dark wool. The sleeves still too long, but
warm enough. I grabbed the bag, slung it across my shoulder, and gave her a nod.
"Ready."
She smiled at me and reached for my hand.
I let her take it.
We walked together down the corridor, the hum of magic in the air and the creaking of the
ship's wooden frame accompanying each step. I didn't say much. Just listened. Watched. The
old boards beneath our feet. The brass lanterns swaying slightly with the movement of the
ship.
She glanced down at me once or twice but didn't ask anything. I think she knew I needed the
silence.
We stepped onto the deck, and the cold hit me immediately.
The wind tugged at my coat and hair. My eyes watered slightly as I looked out toward the
horizon.
A few crew members were already busy lowering the small boat — the one that would take us
to shore. They didn't look friendly, but they worked fast, efficient. Wands strapped to their
belts. Probably ex-smugglers, or still-smugglers. Honestly, wouldn't be surprised. But
Arcturus trusted them, and that was enough for me. For now.
"We should be close to the coast any minute now," Andromeda said.
I didn't respond. I was too caught up watching the sea.
She crouched beside me, scooped me up into her arms before I could react. I stiffened
instinctively, but… I didn't push her away.
She climbed into the boat, setting me down gently on the bench before joining me. The boat
rocked softly beneath us, but not unpleasantly.
I looked over the side, the dark waters rushing below. Waves clashed against the hull of the
Noctua behind us, frothing and white. The ship was massive, powerful. A creature of its own,
cutting across the sea like it had done so a thousand times before.
And we were leaving it behind.
Leaving Britain behind.
The spray from the sea caught my face, salty and stinging, and I didn't wipe it away. Just
stared out across the water.
A new chapter was waiting. Somewhere, on the other side. A new Chapter I desperately
needed.