The last thing he remembered was a flash of light—
a car speeding toward him, the sound of impact, then silence so complete it felt like the air itself had frozen in his chest.
Darkness followed, heavy and endless… until a faint warmth bloomed behind his eyelids, like light leaking through the void.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was no longer on the road.
He lay in a small wooden cradle, surrounded by flickering candlelight dancing over rough walls.
He tried to speak, but only a soft infant murmur escaped his lips.
He wanted to scream in disbelief, yet all he could manage was a weak sound mixed with the shallow breaths of a newborn.
"What… what's happening? Am I… an infant?"
Before the thought could settle, a torrent of images crashed into his mind—
A stern man with grey eyes: Julius Ashborn.
A gentle woman with silver hair and a loving smile: Eleanor Ashborn.
A grand manor swallowed by storm and chaos—
shouts, masked figures, roaring flames—
and a voice heavy with urgency before everything went black:
> "Cranchey… take him away, quickly… and do not return until it's safe."
Consciousness returned slowly, weighed down by grief.
Warm tears rolled down the baby's cheeks—
a mix of his old sorrow and his new, fragile life.
Then the truth became clear:
He was now Lucian Ashborn, heir to what was once one of the Twenty-Eight Sacred Families in the wizarding world.
The Ashborns had fallen from grace when his father refused to swear allegiance to Lord Voldemort.
That fateful night, the family manor was attacked.
His parents died defending their honor, while a loyal house-elf named Cranchey obeyed Julius's last command—
to flee with the infant heir before the Dark Lord's followers could find him.
Now they lived hidden away, in a small hut somewhere far from prying eyes.
Cranchey, the old elf with drooping ears and large anxious eyes, watched over the baby with tireless devotion.
> "Young master… Cranchey swears, you'll be safe as long as I breathe."
As Lucian shifted in his cradle, his tiny hand brushed against something solid beneath him.
He grasped it instinctively—
a wand, smooth and black as midnight, cold to the touch, utterly silent.
Cranchey gasped in alarm.
> "Master Lucian! That is dangerous—wands aren't toys for babies!"
He hurriedly took the wand and locked it inside a wooden drawer.
But when he turned back moments later, his heart nearly stopped.
The wand was back beside the child.
He rushed to the drawer—it was empty.
> "By the stars… I didn't feel any magic surge! Not from the wand… not from the young master!"
The elf stood frozen, bewildered, while Lucian gazed at the black wand, his grey eyes glimmering faintly.
Then, deep within his mind, words echoed—ancient, distant, and unfamiliar:
> "The Star Wand… its origin unknown.
It is born with its master, grows with his power,
and lives as long as his heart beats with magic."
With that memory came a strange vision—
a silent meditation, a way to still the body until the mind became the center of one's magic.
It was a method to draw magical energy from the world and condense it into a single magical core,
one that expanded each time it absorbed power.
Though he barely understood it, instinct urged him to try.
From that night on, the infant began to meditate in his sleep—
at first clumsy and shallow, then deeper, calmer, steadier.
Sometimes the air in the room grew heavy,
as if the world itself joined in his quiet rhythm of breathing.
> Cranchey would whisper whenever he saw it happen:
"Young master… you truly are different."