Chapter 4: Preparations & Ritual

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. The silence was unsettling, a heavy kind of stillness that seemed out of place.

The Curse Breaker's wand hovered just above the air, glowing faintly. For a moment, the runes on his wrist pulsed gently as he murmured the spell again.

"Vestigia…"

Nothing.

No shimmer, no footprints, no trace of magic. Just an empty quiet.

One of the smugglers behind him shifted nervously. "It's… it's gone," he said, his voice thin. "There's nothing left."

The Curse Breaker lowered his wand slowly, his frown deepening.

"I can see that," he replied coldly, his tone flat. "That's not what I asked."

Another smuggler stepped forward, caution in his voice. "I've seen this before. 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 remained silent, waiting.

"Portkey," the man continued, his voice quieter. "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 slowly, fixing the smuggler with a sharp, calculating gaze. "And where would someone get a Portkey like that… in Rome?"

The smuggler scratched his jaw, looking uncomfortable. "There's a shop. It's disgusting. Smells like mold and rotten herbs. I've bought things there before. The guy who runs it… he trades with smugglers. And people like us."

He hesitated, then added, "I think his name is Giovanni."

The Curse Breaker's face remained unreadable.

"Take me there."

The smuggler blinked. "Now?"

Without breaking his gaze, the Curse Breaker turned his head slightly.

"Crucio."

The smuggler dropped to the ground, writhing and screaming as the curse coursed through his body. His back arched in unnatural ways, nails scraping against the pavement, his cries echoing through the quiet street.

The Curse Breaker held the curse for several long, painful seconds.

Finally, 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, their contents scattered across the floor.

Broken glass crunched under boots as the heavy iron door slammed shut behind the Curse Breaker's retinue. The shop smelled of old parchment, burnt herbs, and fresh blood.

Giovanni was on his knees in the center of the room, bound with enchanted iron wire. His face was a mess—bruises, sweat, and blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut. A long gash across his cheek bled freely.

A vampire stood leaning against the counter, idly twirling Giovanni's wand between her fingers.

The Curse Breaker crouched in front of Giovanni, 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, his skin flushed red. Veins popped along his neck. He thrashed, convulsing violently, cracking his head against the stone before collapsing.

The Curse Breaker waited.

The screams began to subside.

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 few idiots in Rome stupid enough to sell those out in the open."

"I didn't know who he was—" Giovanni choked, his voice raspy and wet.

"You knew," the Curse Breaker corrected. "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 floor.

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 fell.

The vampires paused, and the Curse Breaker remained motionless.

"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 expression darkened.

"You're sure he's in England now?"

"Yes," Giovanni whispered, barely audible. "Gone. I don't know where—he used one of my strongest portkeys. No trace. I swear!"

Silence again.

The vampire exchanged a glance with 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 with terror.

"No, no, no—wait—WAIT—"

"Silencio."

Then came the final spell, deep and ancient—whispered, not shouted.

"Dilacerare."

Giovanni's body convulsed violently, lifted from the ground, and tore itself apart. No fire, no sound—just blood and magic and the eerie quiet.

When it was done, only a streak of red and a scorch mark remained on the stones.

The Curse Breaker turned to 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 weathered towers catching the dim gray light of late October. The wind carried the scent of fallen leaves, and beneath it, the hum of ancient magic—thick and undisturbed.

The nearby forest, once sacred to druids, stretched out endlessly beneath the overcast sky. Hidden deep within its roots, pulsed one of Britain's oldest leyline convergences. Untouched by Muggles. Untouched by time.

Cassian stood on the stone balcony, small fingers gripping the iron railing. His silver-blue eyes were distant, fixed on the shifting treetops as though listening to something no one else could hear. At his feet, his black cat slept, curled in a perfect spiral, twitching occasionally in her dreams.

Inside, the keep was warm—wards humming, fires burning, everything shielded 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 standing there.

"He's doing it again," she said softly.

Edric didn't look up. He sat by the hearth, a folded parchment in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly.

"He sees the flow of magic," he replied, his voice calm. "It's not unusual. I did the same when I was his age."

Sera walked closer, 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 floating around like nothing happened."

Edric folded the parchment neatly and set it aside. He stood and fastened his coat.

Sera tilted her head slightly. "Where are you going?"

"The owl came from Arcturus."

He looked at her fully now. His expression remained neutral, 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, but she said nothing.

"Fleamont too. And his wife. Dragonpox. Last month."

Sera looked down, her brows furrowing.

"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 and fastened 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 again. "He says there are vampires in the country. And the 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 vanished.

—————————————

London — Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place —Midnight

The city was slick with rain, the streets quiet, cloaked in the hush of early hours. Edric appeared without 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?" shrieked 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 gray, but his presence had not 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 gave him a once-over. "Still not dead, I see."

"Working on it," Edric replied dryly.

They clasped forearms in an old warrior's greeting.

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 silently, his boots echoing softly on 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—a sound 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.

Kreacher 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 Alaric, 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 right away.

"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 and 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 senses. 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 the 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 remained.

Carved deep into the rock centuries ago, the chambers hummed with ancient, hidden magic—the kind that whispered promises of power and whispered curses in the dark. Candles floated in midair above an obsidian table, casting flickering light over a group of hooded figures standing in a half-circle around it.

The air was thick with tension.

At the far end 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, flanked by the silent, pale vampires. Their eyes glimmered red in the candlelight, unnaturally sharp and ancient.

He didn't bow, didn't speak.

A woman stepped forward from among the figures. Her copper-red hair was bound tightly behind her head, eyes sharp and calculating. She wore long, dark robes, the faint sigil of Gringotts visible on her shoulder.

Patricia Rakepick.

"You're late," she said, her voice cold and flat.

The Curse Breaker tilted his head slightly. "I was delayed."

"You were careless," she corrected, her tone biting. "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 weighed heavy on the room.

One of the other robed figures spoke now, his voice muffled beneath the 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 at one of the hooded figures standing behind her. "There will be consequences."

He stared at her, his expression unreadable.

"You want to succeed?" she continued, stepping closer, her voice low and dangerous. "Then stop trying to act like a lone shadow-walker. 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, her voice almost a whisper. "You two may not share the same ideology, but your goals align for now. Voldemort wants power. You want the map. Work together."

The Curse Breaker's voice was quiet, but edged with cold steel. "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, a dark shape from the circle, stepped forward, his voice rough and gravelly. "Even the Dementors of Azkaban may be persuaded… if the terms are right."

The Curse Breaker said nothing. He merely looked up toward the stone ceiling above them, as if searching 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 leave 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 11:00 p.m. — Samhain — Wiltshire, Vaerendral Ritual Sanctuary

The chamber was silent, save for the whisper of wind against ancient stone high above. The sanctuary lay deep beneath the 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 intertwined 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 with stillness. The child's gaze was distant, almost solemn, as though he could hear something no one else could. He did not 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, absorbed by the runes below.

The circle drank it eagerly.

A shimmer passed through the chamber, and for a heartbeat, everything glowed red. Then fire erupted from the heart of the circle—blue flames bursting like the breath of a slumbering god. The red glow was devoured in an instant, burned away until only cool blue light remained, rippling outward like waves across still water.

Cassian's wound closed without a trace.

Edric stepped back, giving space.

Seraphine, robed in midnight silver, stepped forward with calm precision. Her lips began to move in Latin, her voice a barely audible whisper. She reached for the first of the twelve ingredients from a marble pedestal beside her.

She tossed the Phoenix Feather into the flames.

"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 a drop of Moonwater fall into the flame.

"Clareat mens, purificetur corpus." Let the mind shine, let the body be purified.

Silver light washed over Cassian's skin, and 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 stirring into full wakefulness.

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.

Cassian's pupils widened, his breath slowing. Seraphine watched closely, her gaze sharp. His body responded perfectly, the power flowing through him.

A single drop of freely given unicorn blood shimmered as it fell.

"Innocentia volens, corpus roboret." Willing innocence, strengthen the body.

Cassian's skin glowed faintly silver. Edric nodded in quiet approval.

Then came dragonbone powder, coarsely ground from an ancient ridgeback.

"Ossibus antiquis, firmitatem da." From ancient bones, grant resilience.

The circle trembled, and Cassian clenched his small hands, his eyes fluttering.

Seraphine poured Moondew Essence into the flames, the liquid falling in slow, syrupy drips.

"Essentia lunaris, sensus accende." Essence of the moon, awaken the senses.

Cassian twitched, his head tilting as though 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, and the circle sealed itself with a hum of ancient power.

Spirit Glass Dust followed, shimmering crystalline fragments blown across the fire like ash.

"Speculum animae, visum concede." Mirror of the soul, grant true sight.

Cassian gasped. Light flickered behind his eyes.

Finally, Seraphine lifted the last vial: Tears of the Banshee. Her hand trembled as she uncorked it.

"Ex luctu, vox potentiae." From grief, the voice of power.

The drop hit the flame.

A scream—sharp and agonized—rattled the walls. Cold flooded the chamber, and Cassian cried out. His voice echoed twice over itself, unnatural, as though it were a sound not his own. Edric was beside him in an instant.

"Cassian," he whispered, voice low but urgent. "Stay with us. Stay awake."

Cassian's head jerked violently. His eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritting against the unbearable weight of the magic pulling at him.

Seraphine and Edric raised their wands together. Their voices joined in unison, speaking the ancient words that resonated through the chamber like a deep, rhythmic pulse:

"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 with searing intensity.

Light erupted around Cassian, forming a pillar that surged upward toward the dome. The sound was like thunder beneath the water, deep and deafening. The flames pulsed once, twice—then collapsed inward, sucked into Cassian's chest.

For a moment, he hovered in the air, suspended in perfect silence.

Then gently, he floated back down.

Cassian's feet touched the hard stone. His eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing a brief, blinding glow—before they settled back into their usual sapphire blue. But now, they seemed almost impossibly brighter, as though they had been carved from pure sapphire itself, shining with an inner light that pulsed softly beneath the surface.