Chapter 12: Blood and Memory

December 1979 — Fort Winter 

The training hall was silent, save for the sound of breath—steady, deliberate, disciplined. I moved slowly, each motion flowing into the next. Arms arched with control, legs bent and rose in rhythm, and every step was deliberate. It wasn't dance. It wasn't fighting either. Not yet. These were movements Altharion had taught me—forms designed to align body and mind. 

The air in the hall shimmered faintly, drawn into harmony with my breath. Every motion helped me sink deeper—into my body, into stillness. 

Stillness. That was what he wanted from me. At the far end of the chamber, beneath a tall and empty portrait frame, Altharion watched. 

He said nothing for a long time. But I could feel his gaze, weighing and measuring every movement. 

Only when my limbs began to shake—my balance faltering—did he speak. 

"That is enough," he said, his voice distant, ancient. "You may rest." 

I lowered myself to my knees slowly, breathing out the tension as I steadied my heartbeat. Athena had curled up against the wall, her glowing paws lazily flicking in the air like mist. 

Altharion spoke again, voice firm.

"I must rest once more. The knowledge added to the grimoire in the last millennium is vast—

 and I must sift through it before I can guide you further. Until then, the portraits will instruct you in our ways. In etiquette. In the shape of our name. In magical theory, languages, and the roots of our culture. The Grimoire will answer all your doubts. You must only ask."

Altharion extended his hand, and the ground of the hall rumbled. In the center, the stone split open and a pedestal rose, smooth and ancient. Upon it, a Pensieve shimmered into view—etched in runes, its basin lined in silver.

Altharion floated toward it. He drew a long breath, then placed two fingers against his temple. 

A glowing thread of silver memory emerged.

He dropped it into the basin.

Then he touched the grimoire, and a second thread—this one golden—drifted out and followed the first.

"This Pensieve," he said, "contains the history of our house. From its earliest days, through its rise and losses. Memories of your line—of your blood. You need not read. You need only touch."

He paused, then added, "I have included what was stored in the grimoire. What was added by the Fontaine's"

His form began to fade, light dissolving like mist in the air.

"Awaken me every three months. I will be evaluating your progress by then."

And with that, he vanished—leaving the chamber still once more.

—————————————

June 1980 — Alps — Fort Winter

The cold alpine air hit my face like a blade, sharp and clean, banishing whatever remnants of sleep still clung to my mind. Wind tugged at my hair, whispering secrets as it passed. Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky had begun to pale — a quiet bleeding of soft blue through the remnants of night. Behind me, the gates of Fort Winter loomed, ancient and unmoved. Before me stretched the untouched world: jagged peaks crowned with snow, frozen rivers tracing silver lines through the valleys, and the skeletal shadows of frostbitten pinewoods swaying like ghosts.

I had woken early again. Before the sun, before the wind even stirred the trees. It had become a habit — perhaps even a compulsion. The body adapts faster than the soul, and mine hadn't stopped burning since that night in the ritual chamber. Sleep was harder these days. The stillness only let the thoughts in.

Dippy had blinked blearily into existence when I called for him, still wrapped in a woollen shawl far too large for his frame.

"Master Cassian be wanting breakfast this early?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with one long finger.

"Have it ready when I return," I told him simply, water still running from my damp hair. The bath had been freezing. Brutal. Effective. I was awake now.

My eyes flicked to the broom resting along the wall, suspended in the air by a gentle levitation charm. Not a Nimbus. Not even something the general wizarding public would recognize. It was far more refined.

This broom was custom-made. It belonged to one of my ancestors. How they designed a broom this fast centuries ago is beyond me. But hey, who I am to question that.

Halcyon.

The name was engraved in silver script near the handle—elegant, sharp, unmistakably proud. My fingers brushed over the letters. Goblin silver, of course.

I stepped to the edge of the high platform.

There was no railing. No cautionary barrier. Just the whisper of the wind curling around my ankles, and the yawning abyss below. A straight drop down into white-capped silence.

And I jumped.

For a breathless instant, I was weightless—freedom incarnate. Gravity reached for me like an old friend. My fingers closed around the broom's handle, and the magic flared in response. It hummed down the shaft and into my bones. I curved out of the dive just above the tree line. The valleys opened up beneath me—rolling, wild, beautiful. Snow flared past. The cliffs soared. The wind screamed in my ears.

A real grin spread without me realizing. One not carved in control or calculation. Just pure joy.

"Amazing," I muttered into the rushing air. "Just… amazing."

Halcyon answered with a pulse of magic, smooth as breath, razor-sharp in precision. This wasn't flight—it was dance, and I was leading.

I pulled into a barrel roll, climbing fast, slipping between stone arches and steep rock faces. Up here, the sky was bleeding silver, the first light of dawn melting away the final remnants of night. A new day.

Freedom.

That was something I had never truly tasted in my last life.

But I had always strived for it.

Not the fleeting sense of escape found in long walks or locked rooms. Not the shallow independence bought by degrees or status or carefully prepared words. No. This—this was the real thing. A breath stolen from the sky, a moment cut free from time, a defiance of the world's weight.

I banked left, rising again, the wind crashing against my face.

And as the peaks passed beneath, as the chill bit at my cheeks and the light turned gold on the horizon, I let the silence stretch.

Yes, there had been tragedy. Yes, there had been loss. But there were good moments too. Even now. Even here.

They didn't erase the pain, no—but they were real. And sometimes… that was enough.

I flew for a while longer, weaving between snow-crested ridges and letting the silence stretch across the sky. The cold stung my cheeks, my fingers numb around the broom's polished handle. Below, the valley was beginning to stir—light pooling between peaks, warming the mist until it thinned into a silver veil.

Then I saw it—the sun cresting the far horizon.

Its rays spilled across the mountains, golden and pale, flooding the snow with a soft, burning glow. The warmth hit my face, chasing away the last of the chill.

"Better get back to the fort," I muttered.

Altharion's punishments weren't exactly mild. Last time I was late, he left me with a training regimen so cruel I could barely stand the next day.

My stomach clenched slightly at the memory. Barley awake from his knowledge-absorbing dream and already torturing the hell out of me.

 I leaned forward, angled my broom, and soared back toward the waiting spires of Fort Winter.

I stepped off the broom, breath calm now, blood humming, heart steadier than it had been all week.

The castle gates sealed behind me with a quiet hiss of magic. I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing faintly through the stone halls, the rush of wind outside already fading from my mind.

I took the stairs two at a time, the cold still clinging to my skin, more out of habit than need.

"Dippy," I called softly, and with a soft pop, the elf appeared.

"Prepare a bath. And… breakfast," I added after a pause. My mind was elsewhere.

The elf vanished with a bow.

I barely registered the paintings watching me from the walls as I entered the bathing chamber. Steam was already rising from the water when I stepped in, sinking slowly beneath the surface until only my head remained above. The warmth soaked into my limbs, the tension leaving muscle by muscle.

I stared at my reflection in the rippling surface. Taller than last year. More proportioned.

There were lines now—early traces of muscle cutting through the soft frame of childhood.

My shoulders had squared. My body was responding to the training. My fingers drifted across the faint ridges of my torso.

"I'm pretty sure I didn't look like this at four in my last life," I murmured.

One and a half years. It felt longer. 

The knowledge that had been pushed into my head… it was staggering. I wouldn't remember a tenth of it without the ritual.

In my past life, I'd been intelligent. Gifted, even. But this—this mind? It was something else. I didn't just remember—I understood. I saw.

Two or three readings, and I could recite paragraphs. But it wasn't just memory. It was clarity. And with mind magic progressing—albeit slowly—I could almost feel the shape of my memories, like stars waiting to be plucked from the sky. And then there was the rest of it. Endless etiquette drills. History lectures. Dancing forms and dinner conduct. How to bow. How to hold a wand. How to walk.

Exhausting.

But the history—that part had been worth it.

The Pensieve brought it alive. Dragons soaring through thunderclouds. Wizards shaping mountains with spells. Empires rising and falling. The brilliance of ancient Rome, the tragedy of Athens. Grindelwald's war—blood and fire and things that should never have walked the earth. The Muggle world collapsing into madness beside it, unaware.

My thoughts drifted again—back to my great-grandfather. Still nothing. No letter. No sign. No trace. Just… gone. If not for the elves still feeling the bond—still insisting that he's alive—I would have believed him dead. But even that's no comfort. If he's alive and not reaching out… then something is keeping him away. Or someone.

That cold pressure rose again in my chest. That feeling I couldn't shake.

Powerlessness.

No matter how much I study, no matter how much I absorb—it always feels slow. Like running up a mountain barefoot, while the summit grows taller with every step.

I raised a hand from the water, letting droplets rise with a flick of will. They lifted, trembling slightly, before beginning to swirl—little orbs of liquid hovering above my palm. With more focus, they compressed, shimmered and hardened into ice.

The moment I released my grip, they dropped back into the water with a splash.

I exhaled.

No wonder only the most powerful wizards manage wandless magic. Focusing magic without a wand… it's not a trick. It's war. The discipline, the clarity—insane. You have to be tuned into your body, your magic, your breath. Every flicker of thought matters.

If my body weren't already so attuned—if I hadn't been reforged at three—I doubt I would've come this far at all. But instead of discouraging me, it did the opposite.

It lit a fire.

Born into two ancient lines. Raised on discipline and legacy. It would be an insult not to push myself further. I had advantages—yes. Magic sensitivity. Magical awareness. Mage-sight in early stages. A natural feel for mind magic, runes, the arcane arts, potions, alchemy. A connection to nature through the Fontaines. A resonance to the old rites through the Vaerendrals.

Cheat codes, some might say. But even with all that—at the end of the day—I was still not yet five.

Still growing. And the world wasn't going to wait for me.

—————————————

Cassian sat quietly at the long walnut table near the hearth, towel still draped around his shoulders from the icy morning flight. The plate before him steamed gently in the chill air—Dippy had laid everything out with meticulous care.

Cassian's plate held a carefully arranged breakfast—simple, elegant, and crafted with purpose.

A folded herb omelette, soft and golden, filled with finely chopped spinach, parsley, and a hint of goat cheese—light but rich in nutrients. Beside it sat a warm slice of rustic rye bread, spread lightly with Fontaine-blended elderflower honey, its faint sweetness balancing the savoury.

Two slices of poached pear, dusted with cinnamon, gleamed beside a small wedge of Italian sheep's cheese—nutty and smooth. A handful of crushed walnuts, soaked in a touch of syrup and sprinkled with dried berries, rested in a silver bowl at the corner.

Steam curled from a light herbal infusion—a morning tonic of lemon balm, chamomile, and a dash of magically grown mint, brewed to restore the body after exertion and ease the mind before study.

Cassian had barely finished the last bite of his meal when the air in the room shifted. The doors creaked open, cold wind trailing in behind Altharion's ever-floating form.

"Good. You're done," came the crisp, clipped voice. Always clipped. Always watching.

Cassian swallowed, setting his fork down.

"Get up. Time to evaluate your progress."

And so began another day of torment.

——————————————

The clang of steel echoed through the training hall, rhythmic and sharp. Cassian's sword was smaller than a standard blade—sized to fit his frame—but no less deadly in its weight and speed. Sweat trickled down his neck, his shirt already damp, clinging to his skin.

He ducked beneath the swinging arm of an enchanted puppet, blade humming as it passed a breath too high. He shifted on instinct—low sweep to the right, footwork tight, pivot sharp. His sword struck the puppet's knee joint, bouncing off the shield enchantment with a dull clang. No damage.

"You're too slow," Altharion called from the side, arms folded. "Again."

Cassian gritted his teeth, pivoting to deflect another blow. This one came from a second puppet—twin swords lashing out in a flurry. He parried, dodged, rolled.

Then zap—a stinging hex flew past his shoulder. He hissed. Another one hit his thigh—just enough to make his muscles seize.

"You're a wizard, Cassian. Use your gift. Don't fight like a Muggle."

Cassian didn't answer. No breath left to spare. He threw out his hand mid-roll, casting a silent Depulso. One of the puppets flew backward and slammed into the stone wall with a crash, crumpling.

He didn't pause—he spun into a downward slash, meeting the other puppet head-on. Their blades sparked, steel shrieking. His footing held. Barely.

"Again!" Altharion's voice cracked like thunder.

Cassian staggered, breath burning in his lungs. Everything ached. His limbs felt like lead, and yet he moved, faster now, flowing through the sequence Altharion had drilled into him since he could stand straight.

Corpus Arcanum Motus.

Every step, every breath aligned. Thought, movement, magic. The movements weren't beautiful—they were precise.

He struck again. Deflected a blow with a twist of his body, then countered—sword gliding into a gap in the puppet's defense. This time, it staggered.

Another hex sizzled past his head, grazing his hair. He dropped to the ground, rolled, Lumos Maxima bursting from his palm in a flash. It stunned the puppet long enough for him to ram his shoulder into it, knocking it over.

By the time Altharion finally waved his hand and the puppets fell inert, Cassian collapsed on his back, limbs splayed wide. His chest rose and fell like he'd run a marathon. Muscles screamed. His sword clattered to the stone floor beside him.

Altharion hovered closer, looking down with something just short of approval.

"You lasted longer than last time," he said.

Cassian groaned.

"And next time, you will last longer still."

Cassian didn't reply. His brain felt like porridge, his body a sack of bruises.

He was twelve kinds of exhausted.

And this had only been the morning.

Cassian lay on the cold stone floor, every breath a small battle. His limbs were lead, his shirt plastered to his skin with sweat, and his sword lay forgotten beside him. He didn't even flinch when Altharion hovered over him, expression unreadable.

"Go. Shower. Eat. We begin again after lunch."

The usual warmth was absent—if it had ever been there to begin with.

Cassian managed a nod, gritting his teeth as he rolled onto his side and forced himself up. Every step toward the door felt like dragging chains behind him.

——————————————

The afternoon sun filtered through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor of the chamber. The walls were bare, the room silent, save for the faint hum of magic that always lingered in Fort Winter's deepest levels.

Cassian sat cross-legged on the floor, his posture upright despite the lingering ache in his muscles. Altharion floated before him, a flicker of blue light hovering just above the ground, his form more solid now, his eyes piercing.

"Clear your thoughts," the spirit commanded. His voice echoed in the chamber like wind through a cave. "Still the noise."

Cassian took a slow breath, exhaling the pain, the fatigue, the weight of the morning.

"Legilimens."

The word came like a lash, and Cassian flinched—but his mind did not falter.

Altharion was met with darkness.

A black void.

No thoughts, no memories—just silence, endless and cold.

He pressed forward, seeking deeper, and the black parted like fog.

Stars.

Dozens of them—bright points of light in the night sky. Each one a memory.

Before he could reach them, something surged from within—a pressure, a wall—and Cassian pushed him out.

Altharion blinked, once, then gave a slow nod. "Very good. You can resist the average Legilimens already."

Cassian was breathing hard now, his pulse thudding in his ears.

"Again."

They repeated the process. Again. And again.

For hours.

Each time, Altharion increased the pressure, slicing deeper into Cassian's mind. And each time, Cassian pushed him out. Until the final attempt—when Altharion slipped past the stars, just for a moment.

A memory.

The ruins of his home. Firelight casting flickering shadows. Screams echoing through the smoke. His father—Edric—dueling Voldemort, fury etched in every movement.

Then a scream.

Cassian's scream.

Reality snapped back as he flung Altharion from his mind, gasping, trembling, drenched in cold sweat.

Silence hung in the room.

"That is enough," Altharion said, voice low. "You've done well."

He drifted back, folding his hands behind his back as he continued. "You have mastered the first steps faster than I expected. The ability to clear your mind is the foundation. Without it, there is no defense. You can now sense your own mind. That awareness is what allows you to expel an intruder."

Cassian swallowed hard, listening.

"The next stage," Altharion went on, "is true mind magic. Being fully aware of your own mind will allow you to sense your surroundings. Your body. Your magic. You will visualize faster, clearer. You will be able to project your intent directly into your spells."

Cassian's fingers twitched.

"You will learn to create illusions so vivid that they feel real. Fabricate false memories. And detect when someone attempts to influence you—be it illusion, potion, or the Imperius. These are the internal applications of the mind arts."

He paused.

"The external ones are… darker."

Cassian looked up sharply.

"They involve forcing your will onto another. The Imperius Curse is the bluntest of these—a vulgar, crude tool. Easily detected by a trained mind. But there are subtler methods. You can alter memories. Make someone believe they lived a different life. You can destroy minds with this."

Altharion's gaze sharpened.

"You are not to practice this. Not now. Not ever, unless necessity demands it. Learning to defend yourself will suffice."

Cassian nodded slowly, a cold weight settling in his stomach. He hadn't realized the depths the mind arts could go. And now that he had, he wasn't sure he liked it.

——————————————

The next few months blurred together.

Nothing changed—at least, not in ways most would notice. But I felt it. In the way my body moved. In the way my thoughts sharpened. In the way pain had become a constant companion—familiar, unwelcome, but oddly grounding.

Mornings began the same.

Steel in my hands. Cold sweat on my back. Sparring against enchanted suits of armour that grew faster by the week, as if they too were learning from me. Altharion never let me use the same trick twice.

Footwork, blade work, strikes and parries. Push, pull, twist, deflect.

It wasn't elegant. It was brutal.

Sometimes I'd throw in a Depulso, timed just right to gain breathing room. Sometimes I'd conjure a thin layer of frost beneath a puppet's feet and watch it crash to the ground. I wasn't casting spells the way they teach them at Hogwarts—no wand, no incantation. Just intent. Will. Breath. And exhaustion.

Always exhaustion.

By the time I collapsed onto the stone floor, shirt soaked through, arms numb, Altharion would already be waiting. Watching. Hovering just close enough to make sure I heard his disappointment.

"You're slowing," he'd say, even as I struggled to breathe. "Again tomorrow."

Afternoons weren't kinder.

Mind arts. Again.

I sat cross-legged on the chamber floor until I could no longer feel my legs. Altharion pressed into my mind again and again, forcing me to defend without aggression, to remain still. To push without pushing. To see my mind as water—calm, quiet, until I willed it to crash.

Some days I succeeded. Most days, I failed. On those, I left with blood in my nose, a pounding behind my eyes, and the kind of fatigue that didn't sleep away.

Then came the evenings.

Portrait lessons.

Madam Virienne, with her high-collared robes and sharp French disdain, oversaw my etiquette drills and historical recitations like a hawk in silk. How to address the Rosiers without causing offense. Which wine pairings offended the Bulgarians. What phrases were considered vulgar in magical Milan. Which fork to use when meeting the Scandinavian Coven.

And I learned it.

All of it.

Because I had to.

Because this world wouldn't slow down for me. And I couldn't afford to fall behind.

——————————————

October1980 — Alps — Fort Winter

The sun outside had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the velvet carpets and shelves lined with tomes older than most nations. I closed the book in my lap, lifting Athena into my arms. She gave a sleepy murmur of protest before settling against my chest, her weight a familiar warmth.

I needed air.

The observatory often helped clear my head.

I slipped out of the library, my footsteps echoing faintly through the corridor. The ceilings arched high above like the ribcage of some long-dead titan, each stone carved with care, every wall steeped in the kind of silence that came only with great age. Fort Winter didn't change. That was its nature. A place untouched by time, preserved in the bones of the mountain itself.

I climbed the stairs in silence, the way familiar now. My feet moved on instinct, each turn burned into memory. The topmost floor—the observatory—opened like a breath. Wide, open to the sky, built for watching stars and charting magic through the heavens.

Now, it was mine.

The moment I stepped onto the platform, I paused. The world stretched out before me, endless and golden. The sun was kissing the peaks of the Alps, drenching them in amber and rose. Shadows stretched long across the valleys. It looked like something from myth.

Athena leapt gently from my arms, padding over to the railing, her blue-pawed steps silent. She sat there like a guardian, staring out at the horizon, tail curled around her legs.

I stepped to the centre of the platform, stone cool beneath my feet, and let out a breath.

It was September, 1980. I was nearly six years old.

And I wasn't who I had been.

I closed my eyes and began to move.

Corpus Arcanum Motus.

The name sounded old even in my mind. But the forms—no longer foreign—flowed through me now like breath. I moved without thought. Each motion followed the last like music, breath flowing with it. Magic stirred in the air, brushing against my skin. It followed me now. Met me halfway. Welcomed me like a companion.

There was no effort. Not anymore.

The motions no longer stole my strength. They fed me. My muscles moved on their own now. Memory guided each step. My breath matched my heartbeat. And my mind—my mind was quiet.

Still.

The way Altharion had always demanded.

By the time I slowed to a halt, the stars had already appeared—uncounted and vivid above. I hadn't noticed the sun setting. But now, the sky stretched wide and silver-blue, the Milky Way pouring itself across the heavens like a wound of light. No clouds. No cities. No pollution. Just starlight. And silence.

I stood, breathing softly. The necklace against my chest pulsed faintly, steady as my heart. I could feel it resonating—not just with the magic, but with something deeper.

This martial art… it was more than training.

It was a conversation.

And I was finally starting to understand the language.

I could get addicted to this.

Altharion had said that Corpus Arcanum Motus was not designed for war. Not for violence. It was a path. A practice meant for those who sought mastery not of others, but of themselves. Body. Breath. Magic. One whole.

It had been preserved in the Fontaine archives. Passed to my great-grandfather. And when he added it to the Grimoire, even Altharion—who had studied magic longer than most civilisations had stood—had paused to admire it. The Vaerendral archives had nothing like it.

The Fontaines were healers. In tune with nature, with balance, with the rhythm of life. The Vaerendrals were arcane minds—scholars, builders, keepers of ancient knowledge. Their focuses had diverged for centuries.

But now their blood flowed as one in me.

The Grimoire no longer held two legacies.

It held one.

I raised my hand and felt the magic answer. A small flame sparked into existence above my palm. Steady. Controlled. I willed it to grow. The flame leapt higher. I shifted its colour, from orange to bright blue. The heat kissed my skin. Then, slowly, I shrank it again.

There was still effort. But it no longer strained.

One step at a time.

I flicked my wrist and the flame vanished.

My breath was even. My thoughts clear.

Progress.

I tilted my gaze upward, to the stars. Countless. Cold. Beautiful.

"One step at a time," I whispered. "Et unamquamque stellam attingam—until I touch each and every star."