The morning sun rose over Ilvermorny in hues of honey and frost. Mist clung to the treetops, curling like pale breath across the mountains, and the castle below seemed to wake with a pulse of its own.
Bells chimed thrice, echoing through stone corridors where garlands of enchanted blossoms unfurled in ripples of color—pinks that deepened to crimson, lilacs that whispered into blue.
House banners—Wampus gold, Horned Serpent silver, Thunderbird bronze, and Pukwudgie green—fluttered from every archway, catching the breeze conjured by giggling second-years practicing wind charms.
Everywhere Arthur looked, students shimmered in color. The standard Ilvermorny whites and blacks had bloomed into brilliance: Thunderbird storm-blue robes flashing silver seams, serpent-sage fabric shifting like moonlight, Wampus crimson pulsing with gold, Pukwudgie greens dappled with sunlight and herbs. Even the subtle gold on their shirt cuffs gleamed brighter today, awakened by festival enchantments.
In the great foyer, Head Boy Derwin barked orders over the din, parchment lists fluttering from his wandtip. "Lanterns outside, people! And no fire spells near the Willow Wisps!"
Beside him, Dorian Reeves—Arthur's cousin, usually chaos made flesh—moved with uncanny discipline. His robes were immaculate; his tone, clipped. "Group B, move the sound runes to the courtyard. If I see another melted banner, you're polishing floors till next term."
A few students stared in awe. Dorian Reeves, organized? The end truly was near.
Arthur drifted through the bustle like a shadow between colors. Laughter filled the halls, but it barely touched him. Every smile looked slightly out of focus, as if the world itself were a painting and he a ghost walking beneath its varnish.
Through glass, he thought. That's what it feels like—watching life through glass.
Micah caught up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, juggling two boxes of floating candles. "You planning to help, or just haunt the corridor?"
Arthur's mouth curved faintly. "Haunting sounds easier."
From behind, Vivienne called, "If he lifts one more finger than usual, mark it in the family archives."
The banter drew polite laughter from passing students, but underneath it hung a static tension. Words they weren't saying. Questions none of them wanted to ask since the dinner.
Arthur slowed near a window, staring at the valley below—its thawing river glinting like a silver scar. For a heartbeat he saw Auren's memories flicker across the glass: a sterile room, silver cuffs, voices chanting numbers. He blinked, and they were gone.
Micah nudged him. "You ever feel like the world's moving too fast and you're just… lagging behind it?"
Arthur exhaled, half-smiling. "Constantly."
"Arthur," Micah said, dry as ever, "that's called being you."
Vivienne laughed this time, a little too loud, like she was reminding herself how.
Arthur's laugh came out thinner than intended. He turned toward the window — watched mist roll down the hills, watched his reflection blur. For a heartbeat, it wasn't his reflection at all but Auren's face, ghosting through the glass.
He blinked, and it was gone.
The courtyard glowed with color now. Hundreds of lanterns floated above the fountains, each painted with seasonal runes — spring, renewal, unity. The banners rippled in the enchanted breeze, showing off the IBPS pattern symbols: lightning cracks, vine curls, runic slashes, claw marks — each house's rhythm alive.
They moved on. Behind them, the corridor shimmered with dancing lights and music warming the air, yet Arthur felt the chill tighten at the base of his neck—the one that whispered Silverfang is still breathing somewhere.
Crossing into the courtyard, he paused. The open space was transformed: hundreds of floating lanterns drifted like stars between the columns, students painting symbols of spring and renewal. At the center stood Leah, sleeves rolled, wand tucked behind one ear as she directed a group of younger students. Her laughter spilled light into the air.
Arthur stopped without meaning to. For a brief, unguarded moment he could almost believe in the illusion—the music, the color, the peace.
Then Leah turned. Her gaze found his.
The smile on her lips hesitated—only a flicker, quick as a blink—but enough to crack the illusion wide open.
Something unspoken moved between them: recognition, worry… or memory. She looked away first.
Arthur's pulse echoed in his ears. Around him, the festival thrummed brighter, louder, as if the castle itself were daring him to pretend nothing was wrong.
He turned away from Leah and slipped back toward the corridor where his cousins were finishing setup. Micah was adjusting the charm lights above the archway while Vivienne hovered nearby, reading from the checklist Dorian had somehow managed to keep organized.
"Finally decided to show up?" Vivienne asked without looking up.
Arthur's answer came in the form of a faint hum—the sound of his IBPS badge coming to life.
The silver crest on his robe flared, light rippling outward before settling into a steady, confident glow.
Micah froze mid-charm. "Whoa, wait—was that—"
Vivienne squinted. "No way."
They both leaned in, eyes widening as the faint markings around the rim resolved into seven full notches and one bright pulse.
"Sixty-eight?" Vivienne breathed. "Arthur Reeves, you?"
Micah gave a low whistle. "Since when do you even break fifty without blowing something up?"
Arthur blinked. "Since… now?"
Dorian appeared out of nowhere, clipboard in hand, his own badge faintly glowing at a modest fifty-nine. He stared at Arthur's, his mouth opening just slightly.
"Sixty-eight? You broke sixty-eight?"
Arthur half shrugged. "Apparently."
For a moment, they all just looked at him. In a school where few ever touched sixty, sixty-eight was more than impressive — it was unnerving. The air between them shifted, admiration laced with unease.
Micah laughed softly, trying to make it light. "Guess one of us had to make the family look good."
Vivienne elbowed him. "Don't sound jealous."
"I'm not jealous," Micah said, still staring. "I'm concerned."
Arthur managed a small smile. "It's just a number."
Dorian's brow furrowed. "Yeah. Except numbers like that don't move without reason."
The badge's glow faded back to a soft pulse, but the silence it left behind lingered.
Arthur looked away, wishing they'd stop staring—wishing he didn't feel the weight of it so deeply.
"Relax," he said quietly, adjusting his sleeve. "It'll probably drop by dinner."
Vivienne muttered, half to herself, "Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better."
And for the first time, Arthur realized they weren't just impressed.
They were worried.
You can smile later, he told himself. Just make it through today.
But even as he turned toward the hall again, the world's cheer seemed thinner, fragile—like ice over deep water.
∆∆
By sunset, Ilvermorny had become a living dream.
The air itself shimmered — every parapet draped in glowing garlands, every stone arch alive with hanging lanterns that pulsed in time with the music. Enchanted flowers unfurled mid-air, their petals scattering notes like flutes. The fountain at the courtyard's center had been transfigured into a spiral of water and light, the crest of each wave shaped briefly into the four house sigils before dissolving into mist.
Students and professors filled the courtyard, laughter rising like birdsong. The aurora charm arced high above the towers, weaving soft bands of blue and gold across the evening sky.
When Headmistress Wren stepped forward, the sound softened to reverent silence.
Her voice carried effortlessly, calm and resonant:
"Tonight we celebrate the Spring Solstice — the season of renewal, of courage, of balance. May the light above us remind us of what we nurture within ourselves."
Her silver badge gleamed faintly as she lifted her hand; the aurora brightened, casting delicate light across every face.
At the long table near the eastern fountain, Arthur sat with his cousins — Vivienne to his right, Liam to his left, Dorian and Micah opposite. Their conversation was polite, clipped, the warmth of earlier years replaced by careful silence. Around them, other students clapped, sang, laughed — yet Arthur felt the rhythm all wrong, as if the music were half a beat late and the world pretending not to notice.
"They're beautiful," Vivienne whispered, tilting her head to the floating lanterns now drifting skyward.
"Yeah," Arthur said, eyes narrowing. "Beautiful."
He blinked once, twice.
The lake's surface mirrored the lanterns — dozens of gold reflections trembling in the dark — except one.
One lantern had no reflection at all.
He frowned.
And then, because he couldn't help himself, he looked at the people nearest the light. Dozens of silhouettes cast by hundreds of lanterns — all of them moving gently with the breeze.
All but a few.
Some shadows were too sharp, their edges solid as iron, moving just a fraction after their owners did.
Out of rhythm.
Out of time.
A coolness prickled down his spine. He shifted his gaze, and the feeling vanished as quickly as it came.
"Arthur?" Dorian asked, noticing the way he'd gone still.
"Nothing," Arthur murmured, forcing a smile. "Just… weird light."
"You always say that when something's wrong," she said softly.
Arthur smirked. "And I'm always right."
Before she could reply, Headmistress Wren's voice rose again, gentle but firm. "To the Founders, and to the spirit of Ilvermorny. May this new year bring clarity, unity, and strength."
A chorus of "To the Founders!" followed, and goblets lifted high.
The ceremony's music swelled again — an orchestral rise of sound conjured from a thousand enchanted petals. Applause thundered through the courtyard. The world was golden and bright and full of life.
But as Arthur clapped along, his badge gave a faint, nervous flicker against his chest — a pulse colder than before.
As the music swelled and laughter burst across the courtyard again, Vivienne leaned closer.
"You felt that too, didn't you?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "What?"
"The shift. When she said clarity. It's like—"
"it's probably just the weather," he said.
Micah groaned. "Merlin's teeth, not this again. It's a festival, not a séance."
Dorian chuckled. "Let the evil guys chase their shadows. Some of us came to enjoy dessert."
Arthur ignored them. He could feel it — that pulse beneath the music, something moving under the surface of the magic like a heartbeat not his own.
He rose from the table. "I'll be back."
"Where are you going?" Vivienne whispered.
"Library."
"During a solstice feast?" Dorian scoffed. "You really are cursed with bad timing."
Arthur just smiled. "Timing's everything."
He slipped away before they could stop him, weaving through clusters of dancing students until the sound of laughter faded into the hush of Ilvermorny's marble halls.
The library doors groaned open, and moonlight spilled across rows of ancient shelves.
It smelled of dust, parchment, and old magic — the kind that waited, not slept.
He crossed to the restricted section, whispering under his breath. "Lumos." The light flared, revealing a faint shimmer of books that shouldn't be there.
"Someone's been here…" he murmured.
Then came a faint sound — a page turning.
Arthur froze.
"Hello?"
No answer. Just the echo of the turning page, again.
He stepped forward, wand raised. "Great. I'm about to regret this."
Silence. Then — a flicker at the corner of his vision. A shadow — too sharp, too late.
He spun, hand leveled. "Revelio!"
Nothing.
The air was empty.
After a moment of scanning the shelves, his fingers stilled.
There it was.
Slim. Black. Leather-bound. No title, no markings — just a faint shimmer crawling across its surface like it was breathing.
Arthur huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "Of course. The one book that looks like it eats readers for breakfast."
He pulled it free, ignoring the way the air shifted around him — like the room had just realized who it was dealing with.
"The Codex of Living Shadows," he read off the inner cover, the words curling across the page as if embarrassed to be caught. "Subtle name. Real discreet."
The book pulsed faintly in his hand. He tilted it, unimpressed. "Don't look at me like that — you're the one sitting in the open."
Tucking it under his arm, he straightened and started toward the exit, movements casual, almost bored — the exact kind of calm that gets people into trouble because they look like they know what they're doing.
At the doorway, he paused, glancing back once. Nothing stirred. The enchanted lanterns overhead flickered, as if sighing in relief that he was finally gone.
"Relax," Auren muttered, flashing a half-smirk. "I'm not your worst decision tonight."
Outside, he leaned against the cool stone wall, letting the silence settle. His pulse was steady now, though his grin wasn't.
"Still beautiful," he murmured, the sarcasm soft but sharp. "And probably cursed."
He adjusted the book under his arm, the leather faintly warm against his palm — alive, expectant.
Then, quieter, almost amused:
"Anyway… let's get reading."
∆∆∆
The corridor outside the library was half-lit, the torchlight flickering unevenly across the old stone. The faint hum of wards lingered in the air — that static sort of silence that made sound itself feel intrusive.
Arthur slipped the black book further under his arm, pace steady, mind whirring. The book felt heavier now, like it knew it shouldn't have been touched.
You shouldn't be here.
That thought didn't sound like his own.
He turned the corner — and nearly ran into her.
Leah.
Same crooked glasses. Same notebook clutched to her chest. Same eyes — sharp, curious, and far too awake for this hour.
"Couldn't eat?" she asked softly, her voice echoing just enough to sound like it came from the walls too.
Arthur blinked. "Excuse me?"
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Dinner. You weren't there. Thought maybe the stew offended you again."
"Didn't feel like it," he said flatly, already stepping past her.
Her gaze flicked to the book half-hidden under his sleeve. "So instead you broke into the one place that talks back?"
He stopped. Not turned — just paused. "Didn't break in."
Technically true, murmured the other voice — smooth, amused. The door did open.
Her brows lifted. "Right. Because the restricted section just lets people in if they ask nicely?"
Arthur's tone sharpened. "You following me, Leah?"
"Only when you start glowing at dinner and pretending you're fine." She took a slow step closer. "That book isn't normal, is it?"
He finally met her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Neither am I."
Something electric passed between them — not magical, not exactly — just the tension of two minds refusing to back down.
Leah crossed her arms. "You know, I saw it. The flicker."
"Lighting trick," Arthur said immediately.
She's not wrong, you know. You felt it too.
"Sure," she murmured. "And I suppose you'll say the lights in the hallway flickering right now are a coincidence too?"
The torches sputtered — right on cue.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, steady but deliberate. "Careful, Leah. Curiosity gets people burned."
Good. Keep her off balance.
Her reply was immediate, quiet, and edged with something like challenge.
"And secrets get them caught."
He brushed past her, the movement casual but his jaw tight. "You were the least of my problems."
"I tend to move up the list quickly," she said, half-smiling — but there was no humor in her eyes.
You like her. Not smart, brother. Curiosity's contagious.
He paused, just for a heartbeat. Then, without turning, muttered, "That's what I'm afraid of."
As her footsteps faded down the hall, Arthur's fingers tightened around the Codex. The faint pulse beneath its cover quickened, like a heartbeat matching his own.
He looked down the empty corridor, whispering to no one — or perhaps, to something else entirely:
"Whatever you're hiding, Leah… I'll find it."
We'll find it.
"Shut up, Auren."
The nearest torch flared once — then went out.
∆∆∆∆
Arthur stood near the railing, his reflection split between lake and lantern-glow. Vivienne found him there, a soft smile replacing the earlier sharpness in her voice.
"Arthur," she said quietly.
He turned slightly. "Viv."
"I shouldn't have been so hard on you," she admitted. "You don't deserve that."
He managed a faint smile. "You weren't wrong."
Her gaze flickered toward the lanterns above them. "Still. It's Solstice. We should at least pretend to be happy."
He looked up — at the lanterns rising one by one into the velvet sky — and exhaled. "Pretending's what we do best."
"Speak for yourself." Evelyne's voice drifted in from behind, her tone light but edged. "I'm actually excellent at it."
Arthur turned, surprised to find her walking toward them. For the first time in months, her usual smirk wasn't barbed — it was almost kind.
"Didn't expect you here," he said.
"Didn't expect to say this," Evelyne replied, "but… maybe I misjudged you."
Vivienne blinked. "Wow. Was that an apology?"
"Don't ruin it," Evelyne muttered.
Arthur nearly smiled. For a brief, fragile moment, everything felt… still.
The music, the laughter, the glow. The air itself seemed to hum softly with magic.
Maybe, for tonight, things could actually—
The lanterns flickered.
Not all at once — a few first, then all together, their golden light dimming as though a shadow passed over the world. A cold wind sliced through the crowd, snapping banners and scattering petals.
Students murmured, glancing upward.
Arthur's eyes went to the lake.
The reflections were wrong again.
Lanterns should have mirrored the sky — bright dots rippling gently on water. But now, the reflections moved on their own. They rippled outward, shapes elongating, twisting into shadows that no longer belonged to anything above.
A pulse of unease rippled through his chest.
The badge on his robe throbbed — one, two, three beats — cold as iron.
Vivienne whispered, "Arthur, what is—"
He didn't answer.
He knew.
The ripples broke.
The first shadow crawled free of the lake — tall, malformed, a silhouette dripping ink and wrongness. Then another. And another.
The courtyard screamed.
"Get back!" someone shouted. Students stumbled over benches, spells flashing bright and panicked.
Arthur didn't move. His pulse spiked; his vision narrowed.
He exhaled, half a laugh, half a growl — and in his mind, he wasn't alone.
"It's about damn time," he murmured — and another voice murmured with him.
That shape — that jaw, those eyes like cracked glass —
he'd seen it before.
A Varnhound.
He remembered the last time: the teeth, the cold, the fire that wouldn't burn hot enough. He remembered bleeding out under the stars, while Dorian dragged him from the ruins.
But now—
Arthur clenched his fists.
He could still feel the restriction. His magic was caged — about thirty-nine percent of what it should've been. But it would do.
Arthur's hands clenched — fire wrapping around them like living gold. The book was gone. Someone — or something — had taken it back.
"Good," he muttered through his teeth.
The nearest Varnhound shrieked — a sound like metal tearing through glass.
Arthur didn't wait.
He drew his hand in one fluid motion, the restriction bangles sparking in protest, and shouted,
"Confringo!"
The blast ripped through the courtyard, catching the creature mid-charge. It split apart like smoke through shattered glass — then reformed, its hollow eyes fixing on him again.
Another lunged. Arthur spun, firing without aim — "Expulso!" — the spell bursting against its chest, throwing it backward but not down.
All around him was chaos: students screaming, teachers firing shields, lanterns bursting one by one.
Arthur's heartbeat drummed in his ears, the world narrowing to a single point — fight or fall.
A shadow leapt from the lake's edge. Arthur pivoted, hand up — but before he could fire, the creature spoke.
Not in human tongue.
A guttural rasp, like stone grinding on bone:
"Kill… the one…"
Arthur froze mid-motion. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away.
He understood it.
Every word.
That language — the snarl, the rhythm, the intent — it burned through his skull like a long-lost echo returning home. His pulse spiked. His wand trembled. And then —
He laughed.
"Finally," he breathed, a wild grin cutting across his face. "I finally got it back."
Got what back? Auren asked, but he already knew.
Arthur didn't answer. He could feel Auren's awareness threading through him, both of them recognizing the same electric pull — the old link between beasts and him.
"I owe you one, Auren," he muttered, almost gleeful.
Don't mention it, mini-me, came the reply, smug and satisfied.
Arthur turned back to the creature. Its form shuddered, that voice still crawling through its throat. But this time, he answered — in the same guttural rhythm, his tone like flame given shape.
"Try," he hissed. "If you think you can." It was the first time he was replying one of those things.
The Varnhound hesitated — actually stopped, its movement stuttering mid-lunge. Confusion flickered in its hollow eyes.
Arthur raised his hand, a sphere of energy flickering to life at his fingertips. It wasn't pure fire — it was wandless magic, unstable, sparking through the cracks of his containment bangles like lightning through glass.
"Incendio."
The creature shrieked, and Arthur fired.
The impact split the air, ripples of heat and sound rolling across the courtyard.
One Varnhound gone. Another reeling.
He moved through the chaos like he'd trained for it, each motion half-instinct, half-Auren whisper. The line between them blurred.
39% of control, 100% intent.
And then — silence.
The last Varnhound disintegrated into black mist, scattering across the stone. The lake stilled, the smoke hung low.
"Since when do they turn to shadows?"
Arthur stood in the center of it, breathing hard, the air still trembling around him.
The cracked cuffs on his wrists glowed faint blue, frost and heat fighting for dominance across the metal.
Not bad, Auren murmured. You're starting to sound like me.
Arthur wiped his hand across his face, exhaling a sharp laugh. "Don't push it."
The crowd behind him stared — terrified, awed, silent.
But Arthur barely noticed. His attention was on the lake.
A ripple.
A faint growl beneath the surface.
Arthur's smile faded into something sharper. "Of course."
He flexed his scorched hand, magic sparking faintly from his fingertips. He really needed his wand.
"Because one's never enough."
And as the final lantern above them flickered out, Ilvermorny's night of light ended — in smoke, whispers, and reflectionless water.