Chapter 13: The Echo Within

It was raining again. The kind of soft, persistent rain that made the windows blur and the fire in the hearth feel like a survival mechanism.

I was curled into one of the high-backed chairs in the study—velvet, intimidating woodwork, and some subtle enchantment that made it always the right temperature. The room smelled like old parchment, polished iron, and spiced tea.

Thornik had brought the tea. Classic British blend—Darjeeling, I think—but there were Mirabelle plums on the tray too, which meant Dippy had snuck in something French to keep the Fontaine side happy. Honestly, I didn't mind. Little fusion effort from the house elves. Diplomatic cuisine.

I took a bite of plum, flipped a page, and frowned. The grimoire was open across my lap like some oversized academic trap. It had chosen today, of all days, to show me something that wasn't just practical spellwork or obscure bloodline rituals—but philosophy.

I blinked at it.

The grimoire usually responded to queries. You asked it for something, and it spat back what it thought was relevant—sometimes with diagrams, sometimes with sass, once with a passive-aggressive footnote about wand handling.

It did not usually offer things on its own. Not unless you'd been radiating intent like a bloody lighthouse. Which… I hadn't been. Had I?

The chapter was titled:

"On the Philosophical States of Magical Evolution, as observed through the self."

Author: Alaric Vaerendral.

My uncle. Sort of. Long dead, but never really gone. Typical Vaerendral behavior.

The ink glowed faintly—that shimmering silver that meant the page had decided I was ready for it. As if books had opinions. Which, here, they absolutely do.

Still. It wasn't entirely unheard of. The grimoire had… moods. Personality.

Mind of its own. Will of its own.

Like most ancient Vaerendral artefacts, really.

So I sighed, adjusted the throw across my legs, took a sip of tea, and leaned in.

"Fine," I murmured. "Enlighten me."

I read the first line twice.

"Magic is will made manifest."

While the stages described below serve only as a framework for comprehension, it must be understood that no two practitioners will walk the path alike. Magic, being both mirror and medium, does not bend to uniformity. Just as no two minds think in identical rhythm, no two wizards shall come to know magic in precisely the same fashion.

Stage One: The Unshaped Flame

Magic, in its most nascent state, is ever-present—woven into the world, into the breath of trees and stone and storm, and into the spirit of the wizard. It is not taught; it simply is. In the young, particularly those beneath the age of eleven, magic expresses itself instinctually, erratically—responding to need, to fear, to hunger, to wonder. A child does not cast. They are.

Such manifestations are not evidence of mastery, but of proximity—proof that magic resides within. When a child's fear conjures a shield or their joy lifts objects into the air, they are not commanding magic. They are awakening it.

Stage Two: The Ritual Shell

As the child grows, they are taught restraint. They are told they must use a wand, an incantation, a gesture. The structure is not untrue—but it is not the whole truth. These devices serve as scaffolding: aids to help a young mind link will to action. One associates the motion and the word with a result. One performs, and magic follows.

In truth, it is the intent behind the gesture that shapes the result. The incantation, the movement—these are shadows of a deeper principle. Most never question them. They do not seek to understand why magic obeys. They are content to obey in return.

Few progress beyond silent casting. Fewer still reduce their gestures to a flick, a point, a glance. And even fewer still ask what lies beyond technique.

Stage Three: The Still Mind

Here begins the domain of mastery. To progress, the wizard must confront the self.

Magic is not merely a force; it is a reflection. It echoes what lies within. A restless mind births chaotic spellwork. A turbulent heart corrupts intention.

The path forward lies in the art of mental discipline—what some call Mind Magic, though its scope far exceeds mere defence or intrusion. It is the art of knowing oneself fully. It is the stilling of thought, the quieting of distraction. It is the surface of a lake, unbroken.

When the mind ceases its noise, magic listens.

Stage Four: The Unified Self

At this point, magic begins not to be cast, but embodied. The practitioner does not perform spells—they become them. The will, the soul, the body move as one. Magic flows not through direction, but through expression.

The spell does not require word or wand, not because the caster has mastered technique, but because they have ceased to require it. They have become the bridge between intent and effect.

A flicker of memory may conjure light. A breath, a barrier. Magic becomes fluid. Spontaneous. Natural.

Stage Five: The Eye Within

To continue along the path, one must look inward—and not turn away.

This is where most falter. For it is not enough to control one's emotions. One must face them. Accept them. The practitioner must gaze into the illusions they have built to survive: delusions of strength, justifications of pain, false masks of peace.

When those fall, and only the self remains—raw, unprotected—then does magic become clear.

Illusions hold no sway over the mind that knows itself. Enchantments falter. Foreign will cannot easily root where one's own will is sovereign.

It is here the mind touches truth. And truth, when wielded, is power beyond spellcraft.

Stage Six: The Living Thread

(speculative)

This I have not attained. I write only what I believe may lie beyond from this point onward.

Magic is not cast. It is lived.

This is a state where spell and self are indistinguishable. The practitioner no longer thinks "I will cast," but rather, "I am." Magic responds to thought not as command, but as resonance. The body moves, and the world listens.

It is not faster. It is not louder. It is not more forceful. It is simply right.

The world bends, not because it is conquered, but because harmony has been achieved.

Stage Seven: The Echo of Origin (speculative)

To touch the source. To reach the point where one no longer speaks to magic, but with it. Where language falls away, and only the bond remains. Where the practitioner becomes a voice within the current of the world.

This is not power. This is surrender.

To resonate fully with magic is not to command it—but to become part of its unfolding. It is not domination, but unity. Not force, but presence.

—————————————

I closed the grimoire with a soft thump, letting it rest on my lap. The glow from the ink faded, but the words were still bouncing around in my head like they'd just kicked down the door to my entire understanding of magic.

"Right," I muttered, staring blankly at the fire. "No pressure."

Magic is will made manifest. Sure. Obvious in hindsight, isn't it?

I rubbed at my eyes, dragging my hand down my face.

It actually explained a lot. Why sometimes wandless magic responded perfectly, like it was waiting for me—and other times it fizzled out like a damp match. Why some spells just felt right when I wasn't even thinking too hard. And why Altharion's been on my back nonstop about mind magic since the beginning.

It's not just about emptying your mind or tossing people out of my head. It's about the core of it all. If magic really mirrors the mind—then mastering the mind isn't optional. It's the main questline.

Makes sense why this stuff isn't in your standard Hogwarts textbook. It's not just dangerous—it's important. And the old families probably know it. They're just not sharing. Big surprise there.

I looked down at my hands, flexed my fingers slowly. I wasn't there yet. Not even close. But this… this was the direction. Not more spells. Not louder incantations. Not flashier magic.

Cleaner. Sharper. More me.

I leaned back in the chair and exhaled.

"Well," I muttered, "guess that's one mystery solved. Now I just have to become a philosopher-warlock with perfect mental discipline by the time I'm, what, ten?"

"Okay," I muttered, pushing myself up, stretching until my spine cracked. "Let's test this out."

The hall outside was quiet. Always was. Fort Winter didn't make noise unless it had something to say. I padded barefoot across the corridor, the floor cold even through the magic that usually kept the stone warm. The training room was dim when I entered, lit only by the faint blue shimmer of wardlight on the walls.

The marbles were still there—those bloody enchanted orbs Altharion insisted on using for focus training. Crystal spheres, each with a silvery structure inside like a snowflake frozen mid-bloom. I dropped to the floor, cross-legged, exhaling slowly.

No wand. No incantation. Just me.

I stared at the first marble.

I didn't think Leviosa. I didn't visualize a charm or imagine the wand motion like they teach first-years. That wasn't the point, was it? No scaffolding, no shell. Just will. Pure, directed intent.

So I wanted it to rise. I pushed the feeling into it—like pressing my hand against the air without moving a muscle. One marble wobbled, jittered… then lifted.

Barely.

The second followed. Then a third.

They hovered, spinning slightly, and my head immediately began to pound like I'd slammed into a wall at full tilt. Sweat beaded on my forehead. My breathing grew tight.

One by one, the marbles dropped with little clicks onto the stone.

I winced.

"Okay," I muttered, flopping back onto the floor. "That's… harder than it looks."

A soft pop interrupted my dramatic sprawl.

"Master Cassian?" came Dippy's voice, gentle and nervous as always. "The mirror in the drawing room… it be vibrating something fierce."

I blinked, still on the floor, not moving. "What?"

"The Black mirror, Master Cassian. It be humming like a Nargle nest. Lord Black be calling."

I sighed, wiping my brow with my sleeve. "Of course he is."

"Shall I tell him you be indisposed?"

"No, no." I stood, brushing off my trousers. "Last time I ignored him, he nearly sent a howler through an intercontinental floo. Thought the bloody portraits were going to riot."

Dippy looked vaguely horrified.

"Right. I'm coming."

—————————————

The drawing room was quiet when I stepped in. The fire had gone low in the grate, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts across the stone floor. I picked up the mirror from the side table—silver-framed, etched in runes, humming faintly beneath my fingertips.

The moment I touched it, Arcturus Black's face came into view.

He looked… older. Harsher, if that was even possible. The bags beneath his eyes were darker than usual, the deep lines around his mouth set like stone.

"I won't be able to contact you for a while," he said without preamble.

That alone was enough to put me on edge.

"What happened?" I asked. "You look—" I stopped. He already knew how he looked.

He hesitated.

And that's when I knew it was bad.

"There was a letter," he said finally, voice low. "Arrived a few days ago. It mentioned Regulus… might be in danger."

A silence settled between us. He didn't look up.

"At first I thought it was a prank," he continued. "A poor one. But… he hasn't been seen. Not in days. And that blasted elf of his—he's hysterical. Wouldn't speak."

I stayed quiet. The pressure in my chest growing.

"I had to order him," Arcturus said, and there was something bitter in his tone. "As Lord Black. Forced him to tell me."

His gaze finally met mine.

"He's dead, Cassian. Regulus died in a cave… filled with inferni."

My breath caught.

The silence afterward was worse than the words. I felt my fingers tighten around the edge of the mirror.

Arcturus pressed on, though his voice had lost its edge. "I'll be organising the funeral. I won't be reachable for some time."

I nodded slowly, throat too tight to answer right away.

He shifted slightly, as if trying to push past the grief into something colder. More familiar.

"You were right to stay away from Britain. The death toll is rising—on both sides. Dumbledore's doing… nothing of worth. Second chances for murderers. Rapists. His Order's only allowed to use stunners."

He sneered. "Maybe the last war scarred him so deeply he can't bear to shed more blood. Not that he ever fought on the front lines."

His voice faded for a moment.

"I have to go."

The mirror began to dim before I could answer, the last image of his face hardening once more—grief buried beneath duty.

I sat there for a while, unmoving. The fire cracked quietly behind me, but it might as well have been silence.

So I was too late after all.

I let the words settle like ash.

A bitter smile tugged at the edge of my mouth. "Shouldn't trust the books I read in my past life so much," I muttered under my breath.

I'd known Regulus would die. I just didn't know exactly when. The dates had never matched. Some said 1979, some whispered 1980, others hinted at 1981. No clarity. No certainty.

So I hesitated.

And now he was gone.

A cold feeling bloomed in my chest. Not grief, exactly—at least not yet. Just… weight. That horrible, sinking weight you get when the worst thing you feared stops being a possibility and becomes a fact. The kind of thing that locks your lungs and makes your fingers feel numb.

I'd sent the letter to Arcturus. I'd tried. But it hadn't been enough.

The old families were cautious. Cautious to a fault. They waited. They weighed. And by the time they acted, it was usually too late.

Apparently, I was no different.

I leaned back into the chair, the carved wood biting into my shoulders, and stared at nothing for a long time.

—————————————

October 1980 – Florence, Italy – Subterranean Ruins Beneath an Abandoned Manor

The chamber reeked of mildew and rot. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic taps, echoing through the vaulted stone like a heartbeat in a tomb. Roots twisted through cracks in the brickwork, curling like veins through old stone. Whatever this place had once been—a wine cellar, maybe a chapel—it was now nothing but ruin and shadow. The war had left it hollow, and the Cabal had made it theirs.

Eight of them stood gathered in a loose circle. Robes black as ink. Masks the colour of dried blood. The firelight cast wild, flickering shadows, but none of them moved. They were waiting.

Patricia Rakepick stood at the centre.

Her cloak was torn, soaked from the rain. One eye was swelling shut, and blood had dried along her lip. Still, she stood straight. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. She would not kneel. Not yet.

"You had two years," said the figure across from her—his voice distorted by layered charms, deep and cold like stone cracking under pressure. "Two years, and what do you have to show for it?"

Patricia didn't answer immediately. Her fingers curled at her sides.

"We were close," she said, voice low. "But Edric Vaerendral was stronger than expected. Even after the ritual, he—"

"He was one man."

The voice cut through her like a knife. "One man. And a healer. With a child."

Patricia's jaw tensed. "She wasn't just a healer," she hissed. "His Wife took down a dozen of our vampires on her own. And he was a duellist. A war mage. He fought Grindelwald to a standstill in his twenties."

"And yet," the figure said, stepping forward, "you had werewolves. Vampires. Poachers. You had Britain's Dark Lord behind you. Do you know what that cost us?"

The question didn't need an answer. Patricia kept her silence.

"He was your responsibility, the Cursebraker" the masked figure said, voice low and cold. "And now he's dead."

Patricia didn't speak. The torches hissed along the damp walls, shadows twisting like snakes across stone.

"You oversaw the operation. You promised results. And what did we get?" A pause. "The map is gone. And your pet Cursebreaker is rotting somewhere in a ditch."

"I gave him everything," Patricia snapped—her voice tight with pain, but not fear. "The men, the artefacts, the protection. I told him to move before the solstice. He waited. He hesitated. He was a fool."

"And you didn't correct his failure."

"I tried," she said. "But by then it was too late. Vaerendral killed him."

The masked figure tilted his head, the movement eerily slow. "You said the child wouldn't escape with the map. That Voldemort's forces could contain them. You were wrong."

Patricia's voice was sharp now. "He didn't know what they were walking into. None of us did. We didn't know the old man was still alive."

The air tensed.

"That changes nothing."

Magic flared before the last syllable left her tongue.

It hit like a hammer—hot, brutal, unforgiving. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed with a hiss of breath, clutching her side where the rib cracked beneath the curse. She didn't scream.

"Do you even understand what you've cost us?" the leader asked, stepping closer. The torches dimmed as he approached, as if the room itself flinched from him.

"Twelve," he whispered. "Twelve of our own, slain like cattle. All by one man. Blue eyes. No name. No trace. He walks through wards like they're mist. Leaves no bodies. Only silence."

He crouched, tilting his mask as if studying her.

"The Blue Wraith, they're calling him in whispers now. Your mistake brought him to us."

Patricia coughed blood onto the stone. "It was supposed to be a healer and a man weakened by ritual. Not this. Not him."

The figure's voice was almost gentle now. "One healer," he echoed. "And yet she felled a dozen vampires. The man—Vaerendral—fought Grindelwald to a draw when he was barely out of school."

He straightened.

"And now the child is gone. The map is lost. The Cursebreaker is dead. And the Wraith is on our trail."

He turned back toward the others. Seven figures watched in silence, their masks like bleeding eyes in the torchlight.

"We already hold three pieces. The Library of Alexandria is within reach. Do not forget what lies at the end of this path. Ancient Magic that predates wands. Knowledge that could make us gods."

Then he paused, the air thick with unsaid threats.

"Find the boy. Or we all burn."

And with a crackle of magic and the faint scent of scorched stone, he vanished.

—————————————

Forest of Compiègne, Northern France

The forest was drenched in mist.

Thick fog clung to the gnarled branches, swirling low over the undergrowth like breath from an ancient mouth. Somewhere beneath the roots of a forgotten estate—ruined in the last war and swallowed by time—five figures huddled around a stone hearth deep underground. Wards shimmered faintly, layered thick around the safehouse.

None of them noticed the figure standing in the trees above.

He did not move. He did not need to. The branch beneath his boots barely dipped under his weight.

His cloak was pitch black, folded tightly around his lean frame, though the fabric barely stirred in the wind. Only his silver hair caught the moonlight—threaded white and pale like woven frost. His eyes… they glowed faintly with a blue light. Not with spellwork. But with something deeper. Older.

He held a photograph in his gloved hand.

A young woman, smiling gently, holding a baby with storm-coloured eyes. His fingers brushed Seraphine's face; the touch unbearably soft for a man built like carved stone.

"You were the best of us," he whispered, voice hoarse, low. "The kindest."

The wind stirred.

"I told you the world would break itself on your back."

His thumb brushed across the child—Cassian.

"And you, little one. You will live. I will see to it."

He folded the photo carefully, tucked it back into the inside of his coat.

"But first," he murmured, stepping lightly off the branch, landing without a sound, "I must tie up some loose ends."

He vanished into mist.

He reappeared just outside the perimeter—no sound, no light. A slice of his palm, pressed to the stone, his wand tracing a symbol into the air.

The wards split open like wet paper.

The man who had once been called Thierry Fontaine stepped inside.

He moved like a ghost.

The first wizard never saw him. A flick of the wrist. The dagger slid between ribs, clean and cold. He caught the body before it could fall.

The second turned just in time to see his comrade collapse—only to be silenced by a burst of frost that turned breath to shards. A twist, a pulse of water—then ice—then silence.

The third raised a wand.

Too late.

Thierry was already behind him. No flash. No cry. Just the crunch of bone and the thud of death.

The fourth was faster. He conjured a wall of flame, sent a flurry of blasting curses screaming down the hallway.

Thierry didn't flinch. His body blurred, vanishing and reappearing behind stone pillars, through collapsing arches, above crumbling rafters. One curse he deflected. The next he redirected. The third, he caught mid-air—his hand wrapped in glowing blue sigils—and hurled it back.

The safehouse began to tremble. Stone split. Dust choked the air.

Then came the fifth.

He stepped into the collapsing hall like he owned the ruin. Taller than the rest. Older. His mask shaped like a jackal. His magic dripped off him like tar—dark, heavy, unnatural.

"So you came," the man said, wand in hand, voice slick with confidence. "The Blue Wraith."

Thierry said nothing.

"How did you find me?"

Silence.

But his eyes… they burned.

"You should've stayed buried with your broken little bloodline."

Thierry raised his wand. Slowly.

"You should not have touched my family," he said, voice like frozen steel. "It was not power you courted. It was consequence."

The masked man snarled, firing a barrage of dark magic—black bolts, barbed chains, flames that hissed with corrupted runes.

Thierry moved.

The hall lit with ice and shadow, flame and silence.

Blades of water sliced through stone. Walls groaned as magic clashed midair. The masked man conjured serpents of smoke—Thierry shattered them with spears of frost. When one spell nearly struck, Thierry vanished—only to reappear behind his opponent, dagger flashing.

The man twisted, blocking with a ward. Thierry pressed in—close, unrelenting—forcing spell after spell at him with mechanical, graceful fury. Their magic tore through the chamber, collapsing walls, toppling shelves, shattering the last wards in place.

"You think you can kill us all?" the man shouted, bleeding now, breathing ragged.

Thierry didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Another spell—pure blue light—punched through the air and threw the masked man into a stone pillar.

When he rose, gasping, his mask cracked and his voice desperate. "Why? Why risk everything for revenge?"

Thierry's voice was calm. Cold.

"I am not risking anything," he said. "I am fulfilling a promise."

He raised his wand once more.

A final flash of white-blue light filled the chamber.

Then—silence.

Smoke drifted through the ruin. Rubble shifted.

Thierry stood amidst the wreckage, blood staining his sleeve. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded slip of parchment.

Eight names.

He crossed one out.

Seven remained.

He vanished without a sound.

—————————————

Fort Winter — Astronomy Platform — Samhain

It was late. The kind of late that blurred into early. The halls of Fort Winter were silent, save for the occasional groan of old stone settling against older wind. Everyone was asleep—or pretending to be.

I wasn't.

Sleep wouldn't come tonight. Not on this night.

I padded barefoot through the corridor, the hem of my robe whispering against the cold stone. Athena was nestled in the crook of my arm, warm and purring softly. She always knew. Of course she did.

The wind caught us gently as I stepped out onto the astronomy platform. It wasn't bitter—it never was this high up, not with the wards—but it carried a certain weight tonight. A pressure in the air, like the stars themselves were holding their breath.

I looked up.

The sky above was painfully clear. Not a cloud, not even a wisp of mist. Just endless dark, dusted with constellations that stretched from one side of the world to the other. It felt like standing on the edge of forever.

The stars never changed.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many lifetimes were lost beneath them—they remained. Cold. Distant. Timeless.

Just like this place.

Just like that night.

I held Athena a little closer, her warmth grounding me as I stared out over the mountains. Below, the glacier lay silent, ancient and unmoving. The world felt too still tonight. Too quiet.

Samhain.

My birthday.

The day they died.

I don't know why I kept coming here. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was guilt.

"I could've done something," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

Athena pressed her forehead against my chin, her purr rising just a little. She disagreed. She always disagreed.

But she didn't know.

I'd read the books. I'd lived this war once before—at a distance, in pages and footnotes and dramatic retellings. I knew the names. The dates. The way it was supposed to happen. Regulus wasn't meant to die in a blaze of glory. He wasn't meant to be remembered. He was just a footnote. A whispered redemption.

And yet he had died. Alone. In a cave filled with death.

Because I waited too long.

Because I hesitated.

And maybe—maybe none of it was ever fixed. Maybe what I remembered wasn't prophecy at all, just a glimpse of a path that no longer existed. A ripple in a thousand possible timelines. A dream glimpsed through thinning veils on the night the soul crossed between worlds.

Samhain. When the veil was at its weakest.

Maybe that's why I was here. Maybe that's why I was here at all.

I glanced down at the glacier again. Cold. Endless. Still.

The storm below was frozen in time. Just like the sky above. And me, suspended between them, trying to find a place in a world that never stopped spinning.

The necklace against my chest pulsed suddenly—soft and warm, like a heartbeat echoing against my skin. Just once.

I blinked.

Athena's ears twitched.

It faded, but it left a lingering warmth behind. Like someone had whispered my name through the stars.

Maybe he was looking for me.

They say time heals. But here, it just preserved.

"Happy Birthday, Cassian," I whispered, barely audible.

The night didn't answer back. Just the stars shining like they were within reach.

My fingers curled around the pendant.

Its warmth hadn't gone.

I held it close, pressing it gently to my chest, the way you hold onto something you can't quite explain—just feel.

"Memento vivere," I murmured.