By the time reinforcements arrived, the battle was long over.
The forest clearing bore its scars—scorched trees, shattered wards, blood splattered against stones. Two Aurors were injured, one of them gravely. And Caelum Sanguine was gone.
Mad-Eye Moody oversaw the operation, barking orders as he examined the wreckage. Amelia Bones and the surviving Auror were rushed to St. Mungo's under heavy protection. The remaining squad scoured the area, collecting fragments of spells, blood samples, wand traces—anything they could salvage.
A small group of attackers had been captured, stunned or bound during the chaos. They were taken into custody for questioning. But even as they were dragged away, they spoke no word—only wore the same blank, hollow expression.
Moody scowled as he watched them go.
"I've seen that look before," He muttered. "These poor bastards don't even know they've been turned into puppets."
His magical eye swiveled toward the treeline, scanning beyond the visible.
"And I'll bet my wand this won't be the last of it."
…
Amelia's room at St. Mungo's was dimly lit. She sat propped up on a bed, her left shoulder heavily bandaged. Despite the pain potion in her veins, her eyes were sharp and unrelenting when Moody entered.
"They got him," she said simply.
Moody gave a grim nod. "They did."
He tossed a charmed scroll onto the table beside her. "Preliminary results. Tracking spells faded too quickly. They used portkeys, multiple redundancies, and cursed terrain. The trail's gone cold."
"And the attackers?" she asked.
Moody crossed his arms. "The wizards were hired muscle. Most tied to the Rosier family through underground brokers. The vampires… Romanian signatures."
Amelia's jaw tightened. "That's not enough."
"No," Moody agreed. "It's what they're willing to let us find. Nothing more."
"We're hitting every Rosier compound on record," he continued, his voice rough. "But I doubt we'll find much. They've gone to ground. They must've known this would make them enemies of the entire Wizengamot."
"There's no coming back from this," Amelia said quietly. "What pushed them this far?"
Her gaze drifted toward the window.
"Alastor… Adrian Rosier. The way he detonated—that wasn't just a curse. We screened him before Azkaban, and still we missed it. The way it hid inside his body… the way it incapacitated everyone in the blast radius…" She shook her head slightly. "That's not normal magic."
Moody exhaled through his nose. "I've seen my fair share of dark magic. Never anything like that." He paused. "We've brought in the Unspeakables to analyze the residual traces in the isolation ward."
Another pause.
"So far… nothing."
…
Far from St. Mungo's, hidden beneath an ancient Rosier estate cloaked in layered enchantments, the head of the Rosier family listened in silence.
"They've begun sweeping," the messenger reported. "We've lost all contact with our surface assets. The Caelum boy is secured in the ritual chamber."
Septimus Rosier stood motionless before a portrait of his ancestors, shadows cutting across his lined face.
The messenger hesitated, shifting uneasily. "My lord… perhaps it would be wiser to consider surrender. The Ministry—"
"It's too late now," Septimus murmured.
"There's no path left to redemption. We should never have allied with the Vortelans." His voice tightened. "My son—Adrian—ended up a pawn. Bait. That's all he was."
He turned from the portrait, resolve hardening his expression.
"We see this through."
A brief pause.
"Or the Rosier name dies with us."
…
The ritual chamber was cold, carved deep into bedrock and sealed with spellwork older than the Statute of Secrecy.
Caelum knelt at the center of a massive ritual circle etched in blood-dark ink, his wrists secured in shackles fixed to either side, their chains linked to glowing runes that pulsed faintly beneath his skin. The symbols were unfamiliar—some twisted, some ancient, others shifting like living veins across the stone.
He took stock of himself.
Minor injuries. Nothing critical.
The chaos in his magic had settled after the blast—but now it was suppressed, pressed down by the runes and the chains binding him. His wand and belongings were gone.
His gaze moved across the chamber, searching—measuring distance, exits, anything that might give him an edge.
Then— footsteps echoed from the darkness.
Lucian Vortelan stepped into the light.
Tall. Composed. Perfectly calm.
His eyes gleamed crimson, a faint ring of gold circling the iris, as if something deep within them burned without end.
…
"It took considerable effort to acquire you," Lucian said smoothly. "Ordinarily, no one notices when a child or two goes missing. But you…" His lips curved faintly. "You required a sacrifice. One of my own bound servants."
He tilted his head. "A waste. But necessary."
Caelum looked up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the strain in his shoulders. "You're welcome."
Lucian chuckled and began circling the edge of the ritual.
"You must already have some idea why you're here."
Caelum's expression darkened. "Varnak's Seed. That's what you call me, isn't it? And you want to extract my bloodline."
"Ah," Lucian said softly. "So, Adrian did manage to speak."
He raised a hand.
A flame flickered into existence—red-white and seething, twisting like molten plasma barely contained. It lashed and coiled with unstable heat.
Even from where he sat, Caelum could feel it.
Familiar.
But wrong.
The flame resembled his own—and yet, unlike Luxardent, it lacked balance. It was raw. Distorted. A crude imitation.
"I don't intend to simply extract it," Lucian continued. "I intend to consume it."
Lucian's voice remained calm, almost reverent, as though he were speaking of something sacred rather than monstrous.
"You must understand, Caelum Sanguine… you are not the first."
He took a slow step forward, his gaze steady, unwavering.
"There were others before you. Candidates, who carried fragments of the same bloodline—traces of what once existed. But they were incomplete. Diluted." His lips curved faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Some proved useful. Most did not."
He studied Caelum in silence for a moment longer, as if measuring something beyond flesh and bone.
"But you are different."
The words were quiet, yet they seemed to settle into the air with weight.
"Your bloodline is strong—in a way the others never were. Even before your awakening in the forest this year, your potential far exceeded anything I had seen."
A faint narrowing of his eyes followed, something colder slipping beneath the calm.
"If I had known…"
The pause stretched, deliberate.
"I would not have left you in the Forbidden Forest six years ago."
The words landed softly.
But they struck like a blow.
Caelum's breath caught, his thoughts stalling as the meaning settled in.
Six years ago.
It had been him.
Lucian stepped forward, crossing into the ritual circle without hesitation.
And Caelum could do nothing but stare.