The midday sun rose gently over the ancestral forest, bathing the gardens of the Grauheim manor in golden light that made even the dewdrops on leaves shimmer. The place was serene, radiating a calm that soothed everyone within it.
In the center of the garden, beneath the shade of a silver willow, Nathael ate breakfast in silence.
A house-elf had brought him a tray with freshly squeezed orange juice—enchanted to never lose its flavor—and toast with the household's special jam, a recipe only the family's elves knew and took pride in preparing.
Nathael ate alone.
Celestia, his companion, was not with him.
She had stayed awake all night.
The Quidditch match between the Heidelberg Harriers and the Falmouth Falcons had lasted nearly seven hours. Nathael, exhausted from the journey from Hogwarts, had fallen asleep shortly after moonrise.
But Celestia… hadn't.
From his dreams, Nathael had heard the occasional scratch of her claws on the floor, her murmured yowls of frustration or triumph, and the crunch of snacks devoured by the handful. He didn't know how many she'd eaten, but the floor of their room looked like a battlefield of magical wrappers.
And then… came the climax.
When the Harriers' Seeker caught the Snitch with a maneuver the commentators called "the crane's twist," the score stood at 490 to 480. The Harriers had won.
Celestia shouted.
Not a meow. A shout.
"FIERCER THAN A DRAGON AND TWICE AS CLEVER!"
The cry was so powerful that Nathael jolted upright, wand in hand, eyes wide—convinced they'd been attacked.
"Relax!" Celestia said, triumphant. "The Harriers just won!"
Still half-asleep, Nathael nodded and collapsed back onto the bed.
Celestia, satisfied, curled into her cushion… and finally fell asleep.
But not before developing deep, dark circles under her eyes.
-------------------
And now, beneath the midday sun, Nathael ate breakfast alone.
He finished his juice, set the tray aside, and stood.
He felt his body slightly rusted.
Months at Hogwarts—teaching basic spells, walking corridors, reading books—had softened his reflexes. He wasn't weak. But he wasn't sharp.
And he felt it… in his bones.
He walked the path leading into the forest, crossed a crystal-clear stream, and reached a wide prairie ringed by ancient trees whose roots seemed to watch him with respect.
He stopped.
Breathed.
Then knelt.
With resolve, he placed both palms on the ground.
Instantly, black chains erupted from the earth like living serpents.
Not just a few.
Not a casual gesture, like with the troll at Hogwarts.
Thousands.
Thousands of chains rose into the sky, weaving into a colossal web that stretched meters high, moving with hypnotic fluidity—as if breathing with a will of its own.
Nathael closed his eyes.
He felt the drain.
Ancestral magic demanded absolute focus and deep reserves. Each chain was a conduit of his power. Each link, a fragment of his will.
He held the spell for one minute.
Then, with a gesture, the chains vanished.
"Not bad," he murmured. "I've still got the touch."
But he wasn't satisfied.
He raised his wand.
Aimed at a nearby boulder.
"Transfiguratio Draconis."
The rock twisted, melted, rose.
And from it emerged a dragon—scales of granite, eyes of obsidian, and a silent roar that vibrated the air.
He didn't stop.
He pointed his wand at two more boulders.
Two more dragons rose.
Now there were three.
Nathael looked at them.
Then… he commanded them to attack.
The dragons lunged at him with fury—breathing molten rock, claws slicing the wind, tails shaking the earth.
But Nathael smiled.
"Let's see if I still remember."
With his wand, he traced a large circle around himself.
"Protego Diabolica."
From the ground, blue flames erupted, forming a barrier that didn't just protect—it devoured any magic it touched.
But Nathael didn't stop.
He closed his eyes.
And began to chant.
In Old German:
"Schattenvlâmmen, erwachet!
Bluot der Alten, brinne durch die Naht!"
The blue fire grew.
It rose several meters.
And then… transformed.
From the flames emerged dragons of blue fire—wings woven from magical ash, eyes gleaming with the knowledge of the damned.
The three stone dragons struck the barrier.
And Nathael unleashed the blue fire dragons.
The collision was devastating.
Magical shockwaves rippled across the prairie—ripping up the earth, shattering distant trees, making the very air tremble.
The battle lasted thirty minutes.
Nathael, sweaty but smiling, finally lowered his wand.
The dragons dissolved into ash.
Silence returned.
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At the Manor
A group of young Grauheims—between twelve and fourteen—were playing in the garden when they saw the blue glow in the distance.
"Look!" a boy cried. "They're attacking!"
They ran to an elderly wizard—silver-haired, with weary but wise eyes—who watched the horizon calmly.
"Ancient Beren!" a girl said. "There's blue fire in the prairie! And dragons!"
The elder didn't flinch.
"It's not an attack," he said, serene. "It's Nathael."
The youths exchanged awed glances.
"Nathael? The Matriarch's son?"
"Yes," Beren said. "He's training. Sharpening his edge."
"But… such power?" another asked. "He created fire dragons!"
Beren smiled.
"When you reach his level, you'll understand that magic isn't just strength—it's intention. And Nathael… has always had the clearest intention of all."
He looked at the young ones.
"Now… go back to training. Because one day, if you work hard, you might reach that level."
The youths nodded, eyes shining with admiration.
And they ran back to the garden—more determined than ever.
-----------------------
Back on the Prairie
Nathael wiped sweat from his brow when he heard soft footsteps in the grass.
He didn't need to look.
"If you were going to train," Celestia said, appearing with dark circles under her eyes but fire in her gaze, "you would've woken me."
Nathael turned, smiling.
"You were so deeply asleep, I preferred you rest."
Celestia huffed—but not in anger.
"Mmm. Fine. Then it's my turn now."
She stretched.
And instantly, blue flame enveloped her.
Not decorative. Pure power.
Her speed multiplied.
Her reflexes sharpened.
Her magic amplified.
Then she closed her eyes.
And began to chant.
In Ancient Persian:
"Ay az axw bād…
urw-am hā tō ast…"
The magic that emerged wasn't just for her.
It was a bond.
And Nathael felt it.
Instantly, blue flame wrapped around him too.
Not the same as Celestia's. Adapted—a human version of the ancestral feline magic they'd honed through years of unity and practice.
Nathael looked at Celestia.
And smiled.
"A competition?"
Celestia grinned.
"I expected nothing less."
And in an instant…
They shot forward.
Fist against paw.
Magic against magic.
Speed against instinct.
Each clash sent out blasts even stronger than those of the dragons.
The ground cracked.
The air split.
And at the center of it all, two souls who knew each other better than themselves…
Began to fight.
Not to win.
But to remember who they were.