1658
Gringotts Ledger - Vault 999. House Morwynn.
Access Denied: Heir not recognized. Lineage... corrupted.
The wind clawed at the spires of Blackmore Hold, dragging saltwater and loose rocks against the dark stone walls. The Ancient House of Morwynn had grown thin. The vault at Gringotts — sealed with blood, bound with family rune magic — had not opened in decades. The Council disbanded. The balance once maintained by the Morwynns had been left to rot.
But today, a boy had come.
His name was Elias Morwynn.
Barely sixteen, pale faced and brittle-eyed, with dark blond hair and a voice like cracked glass. He arrived alone, carrying scrolls, tomes, and blood samples. He claimed descent from the last living branch; demanding entry into the vault.
But he was denied.
The goblins didn't elaborate.
The magic didn't respond.
The vault pulsed once — and then went still.
"The bloodline is broken," spoke the goblin warden, without pity.
Elias didn't argue. But his eyes burned. He left with his head down, fists clenched, and whispers on his lips — promises or curses, no one knew.
He never made it back home.
Witnesses say he vanished mid-step, between lamplight and shadows, on his way to the Leaky Cauldron. One claimed to hear a voice — "Not you." Another saw ash fall where he once stood.
They never found a body.
A few weeks later, the official Morwynn Estate — Grimhallow — was found deserted. Furniture gone, library emptied. Embers still smoldering in fireplaces. The lifeblood gone.
The wards collapsed.
The line was dead and gone.
Or so everyone believed.
=======
Centuries later...
The world moved on.
The Dark Council faded into legend, then myth, then silence. The Morwynn name became a whisper spoken only by the oldest creatures and the strangest books. Their vault at Gringotts remained sealed, untouched by time, and guarded by goblins everyday.
And then — one storm-lit night — she arrived.
A girl. No more than seventeen, holding a young boy in her arms. Cloaked and barefoot, pale skin glistening wet with rain. Standing at the rusted iron gate of Grimhallow — the estate untouched for over 300 years.
Her voice was melodious, soft but strong, "Par le rite de l'héritage, je rends au Scion son trône d'ombre. Ouvre-toi, ô Maison de Morwynn, car le dernier enfant de ta lignée est revenu. Sous la lumière de la lune et la mémoire, la dernière braise s'éveille.
Maison de sang et de rune, réveille-toi pour ton héritier.
Je rends ce qui fut promis, né de feu et de plume.
L'Arbitre marche de nouveau."
The land went silent, even the wind and rain from the storm seemed to stop for a moment as if deciphering the girl's statement.
And then... the gate creaked open.
The wards flickered back to life. One by one, the runes lining the estate's stone structure began to glow. Cold blue first. Then red. Then gold.
The girl gingerly stepped through the gate as if unsure whether she would be allowed on the property. After ensuring they wouldn't be harmed, she took a slow graceful walk up the path leading to the large oak double doors. As she walked, the young boy's head peeked out over her shoulder from the cloth blocking him from view. His purple eyes shined as he watched the rusted iron gate repair itself, the gravel and weeds strewn path clean itself as the girl walked, and the manor seemed to shine in anticipation for the first time in a long time.
She stopped at the top of the steps in front of the doors, kneeled and gently set the young boy on his feet. As that happens, the doors open themselves for the boy who turns to look, and then turns back to the girl staring into her eyes with confusion. She bent to give him a long kiss on his forehead.
Giving the boy a gentle nudge to enter the manor; she stands up proudly, softly whispering "jusqu'à ce que nous nous revoyions." (Until we meet again)
The boy did not speak, glancing back one more time before stepping inside the doors. Then they shut slowly behind him.
The girl stood for a second waiting before turning and apparating away with a crack and a flash of flames.
From the shadows, the manor stirred — old enchantments waking, constructs turning, ancestral spirits shifting in long-forgotten portraits.
The Fortress had waited.
Its heir had returned.
His name was Silas Morwynn.