Fresh from my near-death experience, I finally understood just how difficult it would have been to succeed in the ritual I had been planning—alone.
More than difficult, really. Fatal.
If not for interference from an elder of my family—perhaps even an ancestor—my life would have ended permanently. My soul remained in my body only because someone intervened. Otherwise, that damned politician would have taken over completely.
The ritual itself had not failed. That was the cruel irony.
Its purpose had been to make my body more accepting of magic, to refine its capacity and flow. In that regard, it succeeded too well. The newly strengthened magic surged through a body that could not yet withstand it, causing the structure to fragment under the strain. My soul, unable to anchor itself, dispersed.
That was when the elder acted. My soul was preserved—held together along with the excess energy of the ritual—and later restored in pristine condition, placed back where it belonged.
Now comes the truly interesting part.
During the brief window when my body lay vacant, another soul crossed over into it. The politician.
When my soul was restored and guided back—displacing the foreign presence with surprising ease under my ancestor's guidance—control returned to me. The other soul should have left cleanly.
It didn't.
Instead, it dissipated.
And since a soul is, at its core, a pure form of magic, rather than escaping my body, it merged into me. It strengthened my existing soul. When combined with the completed ritual layered on top of that reinforcement, the result was undeniable.
My magic had skyrocketed.
Everything was done now. The danger had passed. All that remained was to dissect the memories of the politician and understand what fragments of him still lingered.
But first—
Sandcastles.
After breakfast, I carried Shayna to the creek near our house. I had promised to look after her, which meant my parents wouldn't disturb me before lunch. I set up a hammock beneath a tree for shade, laid out some snacks, and prepared myself for the day.
As my soul had been dispersing, memories of my life had flashed before my eyes—one after another. Of all the regrets I felt in that moment, the sharpest was how little time I had spent with my family.
My father was a newly minted High Wizard of the family. My mother had already reached that rank and was widely expected to become the next Warlock. She was considered one of the most talented witches of her generation, her abilities compared openly to legendary figures like Rowena Ravenclaw. The continuous growth of her power, coupled with fierce competition within the family for resources, had caused friction between my parents.
But Shayna and I had largely been shielded from that.
Both of my parents loved spending time with their children. I was the one who pulled away.
I had been obsessed—with the greatness of the family, with the enormity of magic, with visions of what I might someday become. I buried myself in research, reading ancient myths and magical theory in the family library. In hindsight, it's almost embarrassing. What meaningful research could an adolescent conduct in a lineage of generational wizards?
That obsession built an invisible wall between me and the rest of my family. My relationships weren't bad—but they were distant.
This near-death experience changed that.
Shayna, on the other hand, was loved by everyone. Even factions opposed to my parents agreed on one thing: she was unbearably cute. I wasn't present at her birth, but I'd heard the stories. Crying, smelly, freshly born—and instantly adored. My grandmother, the sister of the current patriarch, had taken to her immediately.
That was supposedly where her name came from.
Shayna. A blessing.
She was the first—and only—female child of my generation.
With both my parents being geniuses and me only averagely talented, expectations naturally shifted to her. Magical talent couldn't be measured directly before spellcasting—it was defined by capacity and conductivity—but projections were optimistic. By eleven, it was believed her magical force would rival that of a fully trained graduate.
Impressive.
For now, though, she relied entirely on clumsy cuteness—climbing trees, clinging to my shoulders like a little monkey.
My so-called magical research now struck me as laughable. I always chose topics far beyond my level, ensuring I stayed busy while achieving very little. That busyness robbed me of time with Shayna—but blood has a way of overriding neglect. She stayed close to me regardless.
As those memories replayed, regret hit harder than fear ever had. There was so much magic I could have pursued later—but only so much time I could have spent with my family before it was gone.
That was what mattered now.
Memories.
Happy ones.
Moments I could carry through difficult days and into old age.
This family—this love—was what I had been given a second chance to protect.
Magic would come with time. Tomorrow, I would grow stronger so I could protect them, just as the elder had protected me.
But today—
Today was for castles.
"Brother, which castles will we make today?"
"We'll make my school," I said. "Hogwarts."
"No. I know that one. Uncle Robin taught me." She puffed up proudly. "Let's make a big castle. Super big."
"Alright," I said. "But Hogwarts is super big too."
"Is it bigger than grand da's castle?"
That did it. Anyone else—direct descendants included—wouldn't dare shorten the patriarch's title. Shayna did it openly, even in public, and the old man laughed every time. He loved it. Otherwise, mother would have corrected her already.
"Um… no."
She smiled, victorious.
"Then make grand da's castle."
She meant Garhys—the ancestral seat of the Wyllt family. For centuries, the family headquarters and primary magical laboratory had stood on the Hemlock Islands near the Pacific Ocean. Side branches lived across Europe and beyond, but the patriarch and the core strength always remained there.
Children were usually forbidden from visiting due to the sheer volume of magical experimentation. Only twice a year—Christmas and summer—were they welcomed.
Shayna was the exception.
Every week, she rode on our grandparents' shoulders, quiet and curious, adored by the older generation who pinched her cheeks endlessly.
"Alright," I said. "Let's make it."
"Make an ocean too. Use your stick."
"It's called a wand, sweetie. You have one too."
"Uh-uh. Mama says I have to grow as tall as her waist before I get a working one."
"Fair enough. Then watch closely."
I spent the rest of the morning and afternoon levitating sand, shaping it with Finite and structure charms, floating the castle atop the creek like an island. By lunch, we had a respectable replica of Garhys.
We were both sweaty.
Shayna was ecstatic.
And I was finally doing what I should have done all along—making memories.