Chapter 14: To the Wands
Even after Lyra's insistent words urging Daemyr to rest, sleep felt like a distant, unreachable concept. He had tried—truly tried. He had curled beneath the silk sheets, closed his eyes, and allowed the silence of the room to envelop him, but the rest lasted no longer than a single deep breath. His mind was a battlefield between physical exhaustion and an electric anticipation that made his fingers tingle.
The pendulum clock in the corridor echoed eleven heavy chimes. Bedtime had long since passed; the rules were clear, and Maeric was not a man who appreciated disobedience. Technically, Daemyr was confined to his chambers, a prisoner of his own anticipation.
Yet tomorrow weighed upon him like a monumental promise. The search for his wand—the definitive symbol of his entry into the wizarding world—and the closeness of his departure for Hogwarts made his blood run faster. He could not simply remain still. There was a visceral need to share that feeling, and he knew exactly where to find the one person who would understand what he was feeling.
He needed to visit Vaenyra.
After a moment of hesitation, his eyes fixed on the oak doorknob, Daemyr finally moved. He slipped out of his room with the caution of a predator in training. At that hour, the castle was a labyrinth of shadows and echoes. He wisely avoided the few servants still roaming the side corridors, moving instead through passages he knew like the palm of his hand.
The walk was not long, yet each step seemed amplified by the sepulchral silence of the stone walls. When he finally reached Vaenyra's chambers, he paused for a second, his heart pounding against his ribs. It was the first time he had dared to intrude upon his sister's rooms at such an improper hour.
With one last glance over his shoulder to ensure the corridor remained deserted, he turned the handle and entered.
Vaenyra's room was immersed in a gentle penumbra, broken only by the glow of a small crystal orb upon the bedside table, emitting a steady silver light that bathed the space in an almost dreamlike atmosphere.
Vaenyra sat upon the bed, dressed in her nightclothes, her posture impeccable even in the intimacy of her quarters. She appeared unperturbed, as though she had been expecting him, though her cold, decisive eyes fixed upon him with an intensity that made him halt.
Realizing he had interrupted a moment that radiated an almost sacred privacy, Daemyr felt his face warm. An embarrassed smile formed on his lips as he closed the door silently behind him. Before she could utter a single word of reprimand, his gaze was drawn to the object resting upon her lap: a heavy book, its leather cover embossed with the Hogwarts crest.
The silence between them lasted only a few seconds, yet it was filled with a mutual understanding that required no explanation. Vaenyra, without breaking eye contact, shifted to the side of the bed, deliberately creating an empty space. It was a silent invitation—a rare gesture of openness.
"Did you know the ceiling of the Great Hall is enchanted to resemble the sky outside?" she began, her voice low and melodic, reciting curiosities from the book as though continuing a conversation they had never paused. "And that the staircases move of their own accord?"
Daemyr, still somewhat shy, approached and sat in the space she had given him. He listened attentively, absorbing every technical and historical detail she shared. Internally, he could not help but smile. Vaenyra might maintain her mask of coldness for the rest of the world, but in that moment it was evident that she nurtured just as much anticipation as he did, even if she would never admit it aloud.
For Daemyr, that was enough. He felt a twinge of guilt, but also relief. He knew she would have preferred Durmstrang, with its rigid discipline and focus on darker arts, yet he had chosen Hogwarts without consulting her. Not out of pure selfishness—though he knew he had the right to decide for himself—but because asking her would have forced her to choose between her own convictions and the loyalty she felt toward him. And that loyalty—absolute, almost instinctive—was something Daemyr still struggled to understand. He never knew what to do with the fact that, for Vaenyra, he always came first.
At times, he wondered whether that devotion stemmed merely from who he was to her… or whether it was rooted in the weight of the name they carried, in the fact that he was the heir of the family. And that possibility troubled him more than he cared to admit. Even if he did not know why.
"Why are you here, Daemyr?" Her question cut through the flow of curiosities. Vaenyra closed the book, her eyes now fixed on his. "You've never come here this late."
The embarrassment he had felt upon entering her room had vanished, replaced by sudden clarity. He looked into his sister's silver eyes and told her what Lyra had revealed:
"Tomorrow. We're getting our wands tomorrow."
The effect was immediate. Vaenyra was not merely a witch in training; she possessed a hunger for power that Daemyr could clearly perceive. And a wand was the ultimate tool to channel that hunger. For a brief instant, her mask fell, and she gave him one of her rare, genuine smiles.
"Serena told me," she confessed.
Daemyr realized then that she too had been unable to sleep. Discipline had kept her in bed, but her mind had been as far away as his.
Seeing Daemyr still lost in thought, Vaenyra reached out and took his hand in hers. The gesture was calm, almost careful, yet firm—as though it allowed no retreat.
He startled slightly, caught off guard by a movement he had not expected, and raised his gaze to meet hers. Vaenyra simply looked back at him, unhurried, without unnecessary words. There was resolve in that silence, and something profoundly sincere.
"Together," she said at last, her tone low, simple, yet heavy with meaning.
For a moment, Daemyr was speechless. The word echoed louder than it should have, pulling him from the whirl of his thoughts. Then he smiled—that smile that often fascinated and captivated those around him, yet in that moment held nothing calculated.
Looking at her, he nodded.
"Together," he replied, returning the word like one who accepts a silent pact.
And so they remained, reading the book together through the night and into the early morning. Daemyr could not say what hour he finally returned to his room.
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Hexenwinkel, Monique, Germany.
The following day dawned shrouded in dense fog, thick enough to muffle the sounds of the castle, as though the world itself had chosen to speak in whispers. Even so, nothing could contain the electricity coursing through Daemyr and Vaenyra's veins. Despite the poorly slept night—or perhaps because of it—both moved with strange clarity, alert and awakened, as though exhaustion had been left behind with the shadows of dawn. There were no signs of fatigue upon their faces; only restrained anticipation and a silent tension that kept them upright and attentive.
The journey to Germany was made via Floo Powder. Emerald flames enveloped them in a vertiginous whirl of fragmented voices and disjointed sensations until the world reassembled itself on the other side. When they emerged from the fireplace, they stood within the Haus des Drachen.
They were greeted by cold air, heavy with the scent of burning wood and ancient magic. The reception area welcomed them with low light and dark wood, and a politely mannered attendant greeted them with the formality of one accustomed to dealing with renowned families. Eckhart, the family's usual contact, was not present; he had left to carry out a delivery of utmost importance.
Maeric walked ahead, his imposing presence naturally dominating the space. He perceived the vibrant anxiety emanating from his children, nervousness restrained beneath layers of discipline and control. Still, when he believed himself unobserved, a slight pull appeared at the corner of his lips—something that, in any other man, might have been called a smile, but in him was merely a rare deviation from his habitual severity.
His satisfaction did not stem solely from the youths' nervousness. There was something deeper at play. Maeric felt, with almost instinctive conviction, that this moment marked a turning point for the family's lineage. He did not believe, not for a moment, that Daemyr and Vaenyra would leave with ordinary wands, shaped for ordinary witches and wizards. The potential they carried demanded more—implements capable of recognizing them, challenging them, and growing alongside them.
The walk through the narrow streets of the wizarding village was brief and uneventful, as though the world itself were suspended in anticipation. Then, before them, rose the austere, history-laden façade of Gregorovich's shop—solid and silent, awaiting them like an inevitable judgment.
The chime of the bell above the door announced the family's entrance. The interior of the shop was a labyrinth of shelves rising to the ceiling, filled with rectangular boxes that seemed to whisper secrets in forgotten tongues. They waited a moment, the silence filled only by the sound of their own heartbeats, until a man emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop.
It was Yaroslav Gregorovich.
Unlike the commercial politeness of other wandmakers, Gregorovich exuded an aura of technical authority and coldness. He saw Maeric and inclined his head in a curt greeting, but it was Daemyr and Vaenyra who truly captured his attention. His eyes, which at first appeared dull and weary, sparked with professional interest as he studied the two youths again—more deeply this time than before.
After minimal formalities, the wandmaker disappeared once more into the dark corridor, leaving them in a wait that felt like hours, though it lasted only minutes. When he returned, he carried two dark wooden boxes, holding them with a reverence he had not shown before. He seemed even more serious, a gravity emanating from his every movement.
Without a word, he opened the first box before Vaenyra.
"This ebony wand, measuring 11¾ inches, is meant for those who seek magic of power and authority. The dragon heartstring core grants concentrated strength—raw energy ready to be channeled by steady hands. Its rigidity indicates that it does not adapt to indecision; it demands absolute focus and clear intent."
He paused briefly, observing Vaenyra's reaction.
"The nature of magic best suited to this wand is offensive, strategic, and impactful: decisive attack spells, dueling magic, enchantments that require precision and resolve. It also responds well to ritual magic, where a witch's determination is tested.
Whoever wields it must be courageous, resolute, and certain of their goals. Those who waver or disperse their focus will quickly discover that the wand does not obey weakness."
Moved, Vaenyra extended her hand. The moment her fingers wrapped around the wand's handle, the connection was instant and overwhelming. It did not feel like holding a piece of wood; it felt like wielding a perfectly balanced blade—an extension of her own will and determination. She retreated into her own world, sensing the flow of energy travel up her arm like a river of ice and fire.
With Vaenyra still lost in her trance, Gregorovich turned to Daemyr and opened the second box.
"This vine wand… measuring 14 inches, long and slightly flexible, with the same dragon core, is for the bold and creative. It adapts, senses intention, responds to the user's imagination. It is perfect for those who wish to experiment with complex and innovative magic."
Gregorovich took a breath before continuing.
"The spells that flourish most with it are elaborate transfigurations, sophisticated enchantments, and magic of intense emotional or arcane impact. This wand favors those who unite vision and passion, capable of shaping magic to their will without losing control.
In short, it is ideal for the witch or wizard who seeks great reach, boldness, and creative expression—yet understands the necessity of clear intention and discipline."
The moment Daemyr touched the wand, the world around him vanished.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the dark shop in Germany. He was hurled into a vision—a dragon's dream so vivid he could feel the heat upon his skin. He saw himself as an adult man, his posture heavy with ancient authority. He held that same wand and, with a fluid motion, cast a spell of a magnitude he had never imagined possible.
Golden flames, brilliant as the sun, consumed the landscape around him, transforming the world into a sea of molten gold. Most unsettling of all was his own expression in the vision: he did not appear happy at the destruction, nor saddened by it. It was absolute neutrality—the expression of someone fulfilling an inevitable destiny.
Outside the trance, Maeric observed the scene with an enthusiastic smile, something rarely seen. He listened as Gregorovich spoke of how these were the most powerful wands he had ever produced in his life—tools that pushed the boundaries of wandmaking itself.
"Remember… each wand is not merely an instrument. They are guides, mirrors of character, amplifiers of the soul. To choose a wand is to accept the magic most aligned with who you are and what you wish to create in the world. Listen to their demands… and know that every spell you cast will reflect the nature of your wand, and therefore, your own nature."
"They are the finest to ever leave my hands," Gregorovich concluded, his voice heavy with a professional pride that bordered on unsettling.
But none of the three paid attention to his final words. The two siblings remained lost in the sensation of power now resting in their hands, while Maeric, in his own mind, was already charting the maps of his family's ascent. With those two children and those two wands under his guidance, the future was not merely bright—it was a conquest assured.
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End of Volume 1.
I hope that those who made it this far have enjoyed the story so far and are excited for the beginning of the next volume.
As some of you may have already noticed, I've been posting two chapters per week.
However, if we reach 60 Power Stones next week, I'll release a bonus chapter.
Just a heads-up: the next chapter will be an interlude.
Oh, and I almost forgot — the images of Vaenyra's and Daemyr's wands will be in the comments section.