The Grauheim family hall was not a room. It was a temple.
High walls of polished stone, lit by magical torches that emitted no smoke, rose to a vaulted ceiling where ancient constellations turned in silence, projected by an ancestral enchantment. At the center, a black marble fireplace burned with blue flames that whispered fragments of dead languages. But what struck most were the portraits.
Not just paintings of wizards and witches in rune-embroidered robes—but of cats: white, proud, with sapphire-blue eyes that followed anyone who entered. Some napped in gilded frames; others murmured to one another in guttural whispers. One in particular—a cat with a small golden tip on its tail—looked at Celestia as she entered and gave a respectful nod. She returned the gesture, almost imperceptibly.
At the heart of the hall stood a rectangular table of thousand-year-old oak, stretching like a river of shadow. Twenty high-backed chairs, each carved with the Grauheim tree, lined its sides. Beside each, a lower seat—backless, with a deep-blue velvet cushion—for the companions.
Eighteen high chairs were occupied. Sixteen low ones as well. Only two places remained empty.
Sabine Grauheim sat at the head of the table, upright as a statue of ice and gold. Her dark brown hair, streaked with silver, was pulled into a severe bun, but her eyes—the same blue as Nathael's—gleamed with an intelligence sharp as a blade. To her right sat Anneliese, dressed in an unadorned black robe, watching the door with barely restrained impatience. Her posture was rigid, her gaze assessing.
Nathael noticed the absence immediately.
"Where is Father?" he murmured—more to himself than to Celestia.
Selene, walking behind them, did not answer. But her tail flicked slightly—a sign of tension.
Before Nathael could ask further, a side door opened softly.
Lysander entered.
He was smaller than Celestia, his fur equally white, but his eyes larger, more uncertain. He wore a small dark-green cape and a simple collar, without ostentatious crests. Behind him, three house-elves—dressed in silver-threaded tunics—carried floating trays bearing steaming teapots and antique porcelain cups.
"The welcome tea is ready!" Lysander said in a soft, almost shy voice. "We used black moon leaves and young mandrake root… and a touch of star dust, just how Aunt Elise likes it."
Seeing Celestia, his eyes lit up. He ran to her and rubbed his head affectionately against hers—a gesture of pure, unpretentious love.
"Celestia! You're here! I saved you a cup with extra star dust!"
Celestia allowed her expression to soften.
"Thank you, brother. Though I didn't need extra. You know star dust makes me speak in verse."
"But it's beautiful when you do!"
"Only the first time," she said, with a feline smile.
"We're in a meeting," Anneliese said from the table—quietly, but with an authority that made Lysander freeze instantly.
"Oh… right. Of course." He straightened, trying to regain composure. "Sorry."
Nathael approached the table, Celestia at his side, Lysander trailing more slowly behind. Cousins, uncles, and aunts watched in silence. Some nodded respectfully; others with curiosity. All knew who Nathael was: the son of the matriarch, the one who had traveled alone since the age of fifteen, the one who had negotiated with the Liangs of Canton without a mediator.
"Mother," Nathael said, giving a slight bow.
Sabine nodded, but did not smile.
"You've arrived."
"Always on time," Nathael replied with a playful grin.
"I was about to send Lysander to fetch you," Anneliese said, not looking at him. "We can't afford delays. Not now."
Nathael took his seat. Celestia leapt onto her cushion with grace. Lysander sat beside Anneliese, who stroked his head with a tenderness few had ever seen.
The chair of his father, Williams Grauheim, stood empty. And beside it, the cushion for Guillermo—his companion, a white cat with a small black patch on his chest, like an eclipsed moon—was also vacant.
No one mentioned it. But everyone felt it.
As if reading their thoughts, Sabine rose.
Silence became absolute. Even the portraits stopped murmuring.
"I know many of you wonder why Williams is not here," she said, her voice clear and steady, "and why Guillermo is absent as well."
She paused. Then, with a flick of her fingers, a black-parchment letter floated from her robe to the center of the table. Its seal bore the family crest—but marked with a red rune: Emergency.
"This letter arrived three days ago," Sabine said. "Sealed with blood-bond magic. It may only be opened in the presence of the main bloodline."
With a gesture, she broke the seal.
Instantly, a deep, warm, unmistakable voice filled the hall. It was Williams.
"If you're hearing this, it means I haven't been able to return.
I'm in a remote region of southwestern China, near the mountains Muggles call 'Yunnan'—though the exact location appears on no known magical map. I'm with Guillermo, as always. He insisted on coming. Says he won't let me go anywhere alone since Norway. And truthfully… I didn't argue.
For months, I've followed clues in ancient manuscripts confiscated from private collectors. They speak of temples buried beneath subterranean rivers, of chambers sealed with runes belonging to no known language. Everything points to a magical civilization predating recorded history. Some texts mention objects that respond not to wands… but to the pure intention of the spirit.
Today, I found the entrance. It's hidden behind a waterfall that flows only during equinoxes. Inside, there are symbols even the family archives don't recognize. And at the center… something shines. Not like a relic. Like a… door.
I leave these coordinates—though they're unstable—in case something goes wrong. If we don't return within seven days… send someone. But don't enter unprepared. This place… isn't like the others.
—Williams Grauheim.
And Guillermo adds: 'Tell Lysander not to worry. I'm fine. Just… busy.'"
The voice faded. From the parchment, a series of glowing runes projected into the air: geographic coordinates interwoven with unknown symbols. They flickered, as if the place itself resisted being located.
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"A door?" said an uncle, frowning. "To where?"
"He doesn't say," replied a cousin. "But if Williams calls it a 'door' and not a 'relic'… it must be something you don't touch. Something you step through."
"And Guillermo…" another murmured. "If even he's worried, it's no small matter."
Sabine raised a hand. Silence returned.
"Williams and Guillermo have had no contact for eight days," she said. "The letter was sent on day seven. That means something is holding them. And as a family, we do not abandon our own."
She paused, meeting each of their eyes.
"Someone must go to that place. Someone capable of interpreting unknown runes, facing the unpredictable, acting without clear orders. Someone whose bond with their companion is so strong they can think as one."
Her gaze swept over Nathael. Over Anneliese. Over the younger cousins.
"But I cannot choose arbitrarily. Because if I send the wrong person… we'll lose more than Williams and Guillermo. We risk losing the secret itself. Or worse—we might awaken something that should never have been disturbed."
Then, with firm resolve, she announced:
"Therefore, I summon the Tournament of Ancient Blood."
A collective breath was drawn across the hall.
The Tournament hadn't been held in eighty years. It was more than a competition—it was a rite. An examination of soul, intellect, companion-bond, and the ability to act under extreme pressure.
"The Tournament begins in two days," Sabine said. "It will have three trials."
She paused, letting her words settle.
"First: Intellect and Strategy. You will solve enigmas based on forbidden manuscripts, ancient ciphers, and incomplete maps. The one who demonstrates the clearest mind and greatest deductive power will advance.
"Second: Bond with the Companion. This is not about commands. It's about synchrony. About understanding without words. About acting as a single will. Because in places like the one Williams describes, magic does not respond to spells… it responds to harmony.
"Third: Combat. Mage and companion versus mage and companion. Not to injure—but to test resilience, creativity, and control under duress. Because if you go after Williams, you may encounter traps, guardians… or even him himself, if his mind has been altered."
Her eyes lingered on Nathael. Then on Anneliese. Then on the younger cousins: Elias, whose cat bore a small golden mark on its ear; Ingrid, whose companion had silver-tinged paws; Lukas, whose cat wore a leather collar inscribed with speed runes.
"I know many assume the choice is already made," Sabine said. "That Nathael is the brightest. That Anneliese is the most disciplined. But the world changes. New talents emerge. And this place… does not reward the past. It rewards the one who is ready now."
Nathael felt the weight of their gazes—not envy, but expectation.
Anneliese glanced at him—not with hostility, but with quiet determination.
Celestia, at his side, purred softly.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "If that place wants a strategist, it will choose you. If it wants discipline, it will choose Anneliese. But if it wants someone unafraid of getting lost… it will choose you too."
Nathael said nothing. He only looked at his father's empty chair.
Sabine sat.
"Let preparation begin."
The house-elves served tea in silence. The cousins began to whisper. The portraits resumed their quiet motions.