𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 - 𝐝.𝐦.

𝟏𝟏𝟒. 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭, 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐢𝐥,

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Eight years later, in a world where Chapter 113 did not take place...

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CELESTE | May 2nd, 2006  

I am stuck at the edge of the Black Forest.

Beside me, the tan Abraxan tethered to my carriage brays. He stomps one plate-sized hoof on the ground, at which I tut and place a bracing palm just under his knee. That is as far as I can reach, for the winged horse stands taller than the trees behind us.

The air bites my ears with its cold teeth. My other hand burrows deep into my coat pockets, picking at a bit of lint stuck in the corner. I gaze at the castle in the distance. It is shrouded in an armor of fog, armed with spires that fade from few. It is a fortress that has been felled before with those gusts of wind which were strong enough.

No gust of wind is strong enough to move me from where I stand, though. There are roots keeping my feet planted in the soil. My fingers twine into the short hairs of the Abraxan's coat, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

Annette said I was ready.

I try with all my will to move forward, but my knees nearly buckle.

Annette said I should do it.

The Abraxan stomps again. Perhaps my indecision has his patience running thin.

My fingers release his coat as my foot breaks forward. A breathy sigh rips out of my mouth, no stranger a noise than the one I make when I take the next step forward.

The grass is flat and a lame shade of green as I trudge my way through the grounds. I grimace at the bits of mud and detritus that stick to the soles of my boots. It must have rained recently. That would explain the drab gray watercolors that have painted the sky, masking the sun entirely.

The forest and the Abraxan grow further and further behind me, the castle closer. An ugly, gothic mar in the landscape. Too small to be as great as it boasts.

The clock tower rings eight times just as I reach the oak doors. They are fully ajar, and through them I can see the Entrance Hall. Schoolchildren scurry past my view, their leather shoes slamming against the flagstone floors. A pair of Hufflepuffs. Fourth-years, my guess. They are followed by a few others, one young witch complaining of her hunger. None of them notice me on the stairs.

The heels of my boots click against the floors with a noise as empty and cold as the air outside. The Warming Charms pass over me with a fluttery feeling as I cross the threshold. To my right, the double doors are open to reveal the Great Hall. Something bubbles up in my throat, halting my breath.

A thousand witches and wizards eating breakfast in the room where I died.

My eyes flit to the banner floating above the doors.

Eight Years of Remembering the Fallen and the Forever Changed.

"You came."

My head snaps right.

"Blaise," I marvel, shoulders falling.

My cousin, one month my younger, steps into the Entrance Hall. I haven't seen him since Christmas, and since then, his hair has grown out a bit. He favors more length than he did during our schooling days. Otherwise, he sports the same wicked glimmer in his eyes, slender slope of his nose, and haughty square of his jaw.