Chapter 15: Before they First Flame.
August 31st, 1892 — Romania
Twilight slowly advanced over the sitting room, bathing the dark stone walls in amber hues and deep shadows. The ancient tapestries — depicting old dragons and the sigils of House Lhaerys — remained not as ostentation, but as silent reminders of a past Maeric refused to let fade. The hearth burned with a steady fire, casting long shadows that danced along the walls like thoughts no one dared to voice.
Maeric Lhaerys stood before the flames, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture far too rigid for a man standing within his own home. His gaze fixed on the fire did not seek comfort. It sought order. Since Saenra's death, anything beyond his control had come to feel like a potential threat.
The fire crackled steadily — disciplined, almost restrained — much like the man standing before it.
The silence he imposed was heavy, nearly oppressive — a form of authority that required no words.
Lyra sat in one of the nearby armchairs, her fingers moving calmly as she wove. The thread slid through her hands with almost hypnotic ease, as if the repeated motion were her way of organizing thoughts she did not yet dare speak aloud. She watched Maeric from beneath her lashes, recognizing that particular rigidity — the one that surfaced whenever something important slipped beyond his grasp.
She was the one who finally broke the silence.
"They're exhausted," she said at last, her voice soft and carefully measured. "But the excitement won't let them sleep."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"We spent the afternoon together, practicing Lumos. Vaenyra still struggles to keep the light steady. She pushes herself too hard… tries to force magic into obedience."
Lyra took a slow breath before continuing.
"Daemyr, on the other hand, seems to find the light more easily. As if magic responds to him without resistance."
At the mention of the children, Maeric finally moved. He turned slowly, his severe gaze fixing on Lyra.
"Excitement is irrelevant," he stated, his voice deep and precise, devoid of warmth. "What matters is proficiency."
He stepped forward, the fire stretching his shadow across the room.
"Hogwarts is not indulgent. They will be far from our supervision. Far from any real protection." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Discipline is what will keep them alive. Excellence is the bare minimum."
There was no direct mention of fear. Only the need for control — born from a loss he had never been able to command.
Serena, who until then had remained near the window, wrapped in silence and observation, moved. The firelight caught her face, revealing eyes sharp and deep, capable of perceiving fractures where others saw only rigidity.
"The excellence you demand, Maeric," she said quietly, firmly, without accusation, "doesn't come only from pride."
He did not respond, but his attention shifted to her.
"It comes from fear," Serena continued calmly. "Since Saenra was gone, everything beyond your control has felt like a threat."
The silence thickened.
"Losing her taught you to watch everything," she added. "But watching is not the same as protecting."
She stepped closer, without invading his space.
"The strength Daemyr and Vaenyra will need at Hogwarts won't be only practical discipline. It will be emotional. Knowing who they are, even when no one is there to guide them."
Her gaze briefly shifted to Lyra.
"And that… they already have."
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
"They are ready to leave."
The fire cracked loudly, as if reacting.
"The real question," Serena said, her voice even lower now, "is whether you are ready to accept that you can't save them from everything."
She held Maeric's gaze.
"You lost Saenra because there were things no amount of control could prevent — after all, you were not even two years old yet. Since then, you've tried to compensate by shaping the world around you."
Then Serena stepped back.
"But Daemyr and Vaenyra don't need a vigilant jailer. They need a father who trusts that he taught them enough."
She turned back toward the window, letting the night absorb her words.
Lyra lifted her eyes from her weaving and offered Serena a small, silent smile, full of understanding. Then she looked back to Maeric, with the same steady patience that had always held him when he stood on the edge without realizing it.
Maeric remained still.
His rigid posture did not change. His face revealed nothing. But for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, his gaze lost focus on the flames — as if, for a heartbeat, he saw not fire… but an absence he had never learned to accept.
Night deepened.
The sitting room fell silent again as Maeric's footsteps faded down the stone corridor. The firm sound of his boots echoed for a few seconds before disappearing completely, leaving behind only the crackle of the fire and the sense of something unresolved hanging in the air.
Lyra was the first to move.
She set her weaving on the low table beside the armchair and released a slow sigh, as though only now allowing her body to relax. There was something weary in her shoulders — not physical, but emotional. Caring for Maeric had always required a specific kind of strength: silent, constant, invisible.
Serena remained by the window a moment longer, watching the night swallow the valley. Only then did she turn, crossing the room with light steps.
"Were you too direct?" Lyra asked, without accusation — only genuine curiosity.
Serena stopped beside the hearth, the fire reflecting softly in her eyes.
"No," she replied after a brief pause. "I was precise."
Lyra smiled faintly.
"That's why he listens to you… even when he pretends not to."
Serena inclined her head, accepting the comment without pride.
"He doesn't listen to words," she said. "He listens to what they hide."
She sat on the edge of one of the chairs, composed.
"His fear isn't that Daemyr and Vaenyra will fail," she continued. "It's that he won't be there when something goes wrong."
Lyra closed her eyes briefly.
"Since Saenra," she murmured.
Serena nodded slowly.
"Losing her broke something he never managed to rebuild. Maeric believes that if he watches closely enough, prepares enough, he can keep the world from taking something else from him."
She looked into the fire.
"But the world doesn't negotiate."
Lyra opened her eyes again, a melancholy glimmer within them.
"I see it every day in Daemyr," she said softly. "He tries to be everything his father expects… and more. As if being perfect might keep something terrible from happening."
Serena turned her gaze to Lyra.
"And Vaenyra does the opposite," she added. "She tries to be unshakable. As if not feeling were the safest way to survive."
A brief silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, but full of mutual understanding.
"Is that why he insisted on Durmstrang?" Lyra asked.
"Maeric doesn't fear Hogwarts itself," Serena said. "He fears what he can't supervise."
She watched the flames for a moment before continuing.
"Durmstrang would have been different. Stricter rules. Fewer concessions. An environment where he would know exactly what to expect — and where mistakes would be punished before they grew."
Lyra closed her eyes again. "Control," she murmured.
Serena rose slowly.
"And that," she said, "is what frightens Maeric more than any external danger."
Lyra let out a small, humorless laugh.
"Funny… he trained them their entire lives to face the world. But never prepared himself for the day he would have to let them go."
Serena stepped closer to Lyra's chair.
"You did," she said simply. "You taught them to feel. To trust. To not hide inside themselves."
She paused.
"That's something Maeric never learned."
Lyra looked up at her.
"And you?" she asked. "How do you feel about Vaenyra leaving?"
Serena took longer to answer this time.
"Pride," she said at last. "And fear."
She did not soften the word.
"Vaenyra carries far more than she shows. She observes, calculates, adapts… but she is still young. Hogwarts will place her among people who won't have patience for her silence."
Lyra nodded.
"But she won't be alone."
Serena looked at her.
"No," she agreed. "Daemyr will be there. And that changes everything."
A comfortable silence settled once more.
Outside, the night advanced without haste. Inside the room, two women who rarely shared their thoughts aloud shared something rare: understanding without judgment.
"When they leave tomorrow," Lyra said quietly, "the house will feel different."
Serena watched the fire
.
"Yes," she replied. "But that means we did our job."
Lyra smiled — small, tired, but true.
"Then let them go," she said. "And let them learn who they are."
Serena nodded.
"And let Maeric learn," she added, "that loving also means accepting risk."
The fire continued to burn, steady and silent, as the night deepened — and with it, the inevitable beginning of a new phase for all of them.
_________________________________________
The Next Day
Dawn found Daemyr awake before the house itself seemed to breathe. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, brushing the room with soft golden tones — but for him, this was not just another day.
It was the day.
Today, Hogwarts.
The word echoed in his mind like an old promise. For a long time, his life had felt suspended, fragmented between dreams he did not understand and a past that did not fully feel like his own. The dragon dreams — the flight, the fire, the crushing presence of something eternal — affected him more than he ever admitted aloud. Sometimes he woke with his heart racing, the sensation of wings still pulsing across his back, as if part of him had been left behind.
Hogwarts was not just a school. It was a step toward answers. A place where he might finally understand who he was — or who he was becoming.
Since childhood, those fragmented dreams had left him stranded between past and future, anchored to neither. But today… today something felt aligned.
Determined not to let fear seep into the moment, Daemyr dressed quickly and slipped out of the house in silence. His steps carried him away from the stone walls and toward the open meadows, where the air was cleaner and the world felt lighter.
He knew exactly where to go.
Sunfyre favored a secluded stretch where the land rolled gently, tall grass swaying like a green sea. As Daemyr approached, a deep, contented sound answered his presence.
Sunfyre emerged from the field with the awkward grace of a creature too young for his own grandeur. At two years old, his body was already the size of a large horse — muscular and powerful, golden scales reflecting the morning light like living metal. His wings were still slightly too large for his frame, and his tail moved with near-childlike curiosity.
Daemyr smiled.
The dragon tilted his head, releasing a sound dangerously close to a purr, before stepping forward and nudging Daemyr with his snout — strong enough to knock him off balance, yet careful enough not to hurt him.
"Hey—!" Daemyr laughed, steadying himself.
What followed was a rare moment of lightness. Sunfyre ran in short circles, beating his wings and kicking up clumps of earth, while Daemyr tried to keep up, dodging a tail that seemed to have a mind of its own. At one point, the dragon attempted a majestic leap and instead tripped, rolling into the grass with an indignant sound that made Daemyr burst out laughing.
Here, away from expectations, legacies, and destinies, they were simply two beings bound by something ancient and inexplicable.
When the play finally subsided, Sunfyre sat, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling slowly. Daemyr approached, resting his hand naturally against the warm scales of the dragon's neck. The moment shifted — no longer playful, but intentional.
Daemyr stepped back.
His heart pounded.
"Dracarys."
The word left his mouth steady, practiced, heavy with meaning. Sunfyre tilted his head, confused. He opened his jaws instinctively, but nothing followed except a small cloud of warm smoke that quickly dispersed.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Daemyr's chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Just that familiar weight of expectation unmet. He lowered his gaze briefly, drawing in a breath.
Then something changed.
Not in the dragon — in himself.
Determination anchored him. He lifted his head again, eyes locking with Sunfyre's, and this time there was no doubt in his voice.
"Dracarys."
The word was not merely spoken. It was commanded — infused with intent, bond, and trust.
The air vibrated.
Sunfyre straightened, wings spreading slightly. Deep heat gathered in his chest, visible even to Daemyr. Then, with a short, instinctive roar, the dragon expelled a jet of pure, golden fire that illuminated the meadow like a second sun.
Flames tore through the air, reflected in Sunfyre's scales and in Daemyr's wide eyes.
He did not retreat.
Instead, a slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
There, beneath the morning sky, with fire dancing before him, Daemyr felt something lock into place. Hogwarts awaited him. The future called.
Fire called.
But then—
The flames ceased as abruptly as they had appeared. The silence that followed felt too heavy for the meadow, as though something irreversible had shifted.
Sunfyre remained alert, body tense, golden eyes fixed on Daemyr with a seriousness that did not suit his age. There was no trace of playfulness — only obedience… and something harder to name.
A shiver ran down Daemyr's spine. Not fear — but the unsettling realization that this had not been the first time Sunfyre responded to the command.
Only the first time he remembered.
He looked away, as though the thought itself were dangerous.
Hogwarts awaited him.
And with it, choices that could no longer be undone.
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Author's Note:
2/2 weekly chapters.
First chapter of the second volume, I hope you enjoyed it.
We've reached 36 Power Stones! Just a reminder that we need 60 by Sunday to unlock the extra chapter.