The west tower of Blackmoor Academy had long been closed off—its spiraling steps overgrown with moss, sealed behind iron doors and spell-locked by generations of headmasters. But now, beneath the dying light of sunset, Daemon stood before those doors with a hand pressed against the cold metal.
"They were never meant to be opened," he muttered.
Behind him, the others waited—Hope with her arms folded, London beside her, his eyes alert. Raphael, with his usual scowl. Jessa and Stephen slightly behind, exchanging glances. And Celeste, quiet, her knuckles white where they gripped her coat.
Stephen whistled. "Nice decor. Really screams 'abandon all hope ye who enter.'"
Jessa nudged him. "Maybe don't joke right now."
Daemon turned. "There's something beneath this tower. An old passage… older than Blackmoor itself. The Gate of Teeth."
"Sounds inviting," London said.
"I found the mechanism that opens it," Daemon continued. "But it's... strange. It requires a memory. A precious one. From someone who still has magic in their blood."
Hope frowned. "What kind of memory?"
"A true one. Raw. It has to hurt."
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Celeste stepped forward. "I'll do it."
Jessa turned in surprise. "What? Celeste—"
"It has to be done." Her voice was calm, but inside, her mind was reeling. This might be her penance for staying quiet. For not telling them what the mirror had shown her.
Daemon nodded solemnly and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Come. It has to be your choice."
They stepped up to the arch. Runes ignited on the stone walls as Celeste stood before the ancient mechanism—two curved dragon fangs carved into the arch's keystone, dripping with time-blackened magic.
Celeste closed her eyes.
And let herself remember.
—
A field of sunflowers. Her mother's laugh. The scent of summer air. The way Jessa held her hand as they ran barefoot through the garden. The night their father gave her the locket she still wore.
And then—his funeral.
Rain falling on her shoes.
Jessa crying into her shoulder.
Her own heart breaking.
"I miss you…" she whispered.
And just like that, the gate awakened.
The fangs snapped open with a groan that sounded like the world being torn in half.
Behind them, a tunnel yawned downward—lined with bones, carved with ancient sigils, and lit by flickering torches that had no source.
Stephen stepped forward, peering inside. "Okay. So, the hallway of doom. Who wants to go first?"
"I do," Hope said firmly. "Richard's down there."
London looked at her. "We're not letting you go alone."
"I never said I was going alone."
Raphael unsheathed his claws. "Let's move."
They entered in three pairs—Hope with London, Jessa with Raphael, Daemon with Stephen. Celeste followed behind them, her hands still trembling from the memory she gave up. She didn't tell anyone what she'd seen at the end of that memory—a shadowy version of herself smiling through the mirror, whispering promises of power.
They walked for what felt like hours.
The deeper they went, the more unnatural it became. The stone changed—marbled with veins of obsidian and crimson. The torches flickered with cold blue light. And all around them, faint whispers brushed their ears.
Hope stopped at one point and looked over her shoulder. "Did anyone hear that?"
Stephen nodded. "Yeah. Someone said 'turn back' and 'I see you.' Creepy little echo boys."
Daemon growled. "Spirits of the gate. They try to break your resolve."
Raphael snarled, "They can try."
London reached out and took Hope's hand again. "Whatever happens down here—we stick together."
Celeste watched their hands. Then looked at her own, empty ones.
Eventually, they reached a vast chamber carved into the stone. Runes littered the floor like shattered glass, and in the center stood a single black pedestal.
Above it floated an orb.
Inside that orb—
"Richard," Hope whispered.
He was curled up inside, unconscious, suspended in midair like a doll in amber.
Jessa gasped. "We found him."
But before they could move—
A wall of fire exploded between them and the pedestal.
And from the shadows stepped a boy.
Their age. Maybe a little older. Dark curls. Pale skin. And black eyes that gleamed like mirrors.
Celeste gasped. "You…"
He smiled.
"Hello, little sister."
Everyone turned to stare at her.
Hope's eyes widened. "Sister?"
Celeste backed away slowly. "You're not real…"
"Of course I'm real." He took a step forward. "I'm the part of you you buried. The one Father erased."
Daemon's hands sparked with red magic. "Celeste. Explain."
But she couldn't.
The boy looked around at the others. "You want Richard? You'll have to go through me. And you'll have to face the truth about what Blackmoor has hidden for centuries."
Then—his eyes flared with blue flame.
And the ground cracked open beneath them.
—