The day after their training by the lagoon passed with an almost irreverent calm.
Nathael and Celestia slept late into the morning, waking only when a house-elf—carrying a floating tray of steaming tea and mandrake-jam pastries—tapped softly at their door. They ate in silence, the window open to the ancestral forest, where the wind carried the song of magical birds and the whisper of ancient leaves.
Then, they played three games of magical chess.
Not ordinary chess—but the Grauheim version: the pieces were living miniatures of legendary creatures—dragons, griffins, basilisks—that moved with minds of their own, forcing players to negotiate not just with each other, but with the board itself. Nathael won the first match. Celestia won the next two.
"I let you win the first one," she said, licking a paw as her basilisk king devoured Nathael's knight. "Out of courtesy."
"Of course," Nathael laughed. "And I lost the other two out of humility."
Anyone watching from outside would have sworn they were on holiday—that they didn't have an ancestral trial less than twenty-four hours away, that they didn't carry the weight of finding Williams, of representing the main bloodline, of proving themselves worthy of the purest Grauheim lineage.
But that was their way—not the tension of fear, but the calm of those who'd already stood at the edge of the abyss and knew they could leap.
The day of the Tournament dawned under a sky so intensely blue it seemed dyed with phoenix ink.
The Grauheim ancestral grounds—a hidden valley nestled between mountains unrecorded by Muggle or magical maps—teemed with life. It wasn't just the main branch that had gathered. Members of the secondary branches, arriving from Turkey, Norway, Egypt, and even Brazil, had been invited—for the first time in eighty years. And they hadn't come alone.
"Look!" cried a child from the secondary branch, pointing to the sky. "The Prague siblings brought their scarabs!"
"And the Moroccans came with their knarls!" exclaimed another, awestruck.
Though the companions of the secondary branches weren't talking cats of the ancestral lineage, that didn't mean they lacked intelligence. On the contrary: many were rare magical creatures—loyal, sharp-eyed, and cunning. And while they didn't naturally speak like Celestia or Lysander, some wore ancient collars—forged with lost communication runes—that allowed them to articulate words, albeit in metallic or whispering voices. They were unusual, yes—but respected.
"They say the weasel from Istanbul can recite poetry in five languages," commented an older woman, adjusting her unicorn-threaded veil.
"But not like the cats," her husband added reverently. "The main-line cats… they don't need artifacts. They speak because their souls are already magic."
The atmosphere was almost festive. Colorful tents fluttered in the wind, filled with food: griffin stew, black moon cakes, elf wine chilled with magical ice. House-elves darted everywhere, serving with supernatural efficiency. Laughter, the sound of enchanted harps, the scent of herbs and fire—it was as if the entire family had decided to celebrate not just a competition, but a rebirth.
"Eighty years!" an elder cried, raising his goblet. "Eighty years without a Tournament! Today, we are Grauheim once more!"
"May the worthiest win!" another answered.
At the heart of the valley stood the ancestral stadium—an amphitheater carved from living stone. In ancient times, the Tournament had been public: other European magical families, even Ministry representatives, were invited. But after the chaos and betrayals of the First World War—when many wizards turned on each other, and ancient families were betrayed by trusted allies—the Grauheims chose discretion. Since then, the Tournament had been held only among their own.
What made the stadium unique was its magical core: an ancestral nexus capable of transforming the battlefield according to the trial. It could become Egyptian ruins, a forest of living thorns, a sea of enchanted ink, a floating castle—all controlled by the spells of their ancestors.
And so everyone could see, the house-elves had already erected massive viewing screens around the valley: magical mirrors carved with remote-seeing runes, displaying every angle of the field, every expression, every movement.
"The screens are ready!" announced a house-elf in a high-pitched voice. "The first trial will be visible even from the farthest tent!"
A murmur of anticipation rose through the crowd.
Meanwhile, in a private chamber carved into the roots of the ancestral oak, Nathael and Celestia prepared.
Nathael dressed simply: a white linen shirt, open at the chest to reveal a blackened-silver collar bearing the family crest. Sturdy brown trousers, reinforced dragonhide boots, and fingerless gloves woven with dragon-thread. No cloak. No unnecessary ornaments. Only what was essential.
Celestia wore her usual collar, but also a small dark-blue velvet jacket embroidered with unknown runes—a piece she'd bought in a hidden Florentine market after a failed auction. The runes weren't for combat or synchrony. They were for ambient perception—allowing her to detect subtle shifts in magic before traps, illusions, or hidden presences fully manifested.
"I've confirmed the last three competitors," Celestia said, perched on the windowsill. "In addition to Elias, Ingrid, and Lukas."
"Who?"
"First, your uncle Karl. Forty-eight. Williams's brother. Unlike the other elders, he didn't withdraw. Says he doesn't care about losing face to a younger rival. All he wants is for the best to go after his brother."
"Karl…" Nathael mused. "He's a titan. His cat, Orin, has black ears. They say he's so wise he can predict traps before they activate."
"Exactly," Celestia said. "Don't underestimate his experience."
"I won't."
"Second, Clara. Your cousin. Seventeen. Just graduated from Beauxbatons. She's the only Grauheim in generations to attend a formal magical school."
Nathael raised an eyebrow.
"Beauxbatons? Really?"
"Yes. Her parents insisted. But that doesn't make her weak. Quite the opposite. Her cat, Solène, has a golden back—as if kissed by the sun at birth. And they say she commands elemental magic with such precision it would shame a French professor."
"Interesting," Nathael said. "I've never seen her in action."
"Well, get ready. She's no tea-parlor girl."
"And the third…" Nathael said, sensing something unusual.
"Elisabeth," Celestia said, her voice a mix of admiration and caution. "Fourteen. Her parents are from the secondary branch… but she was born with an ancestral-line cat. White fur, blue eyes—everything."
Nathael tensed.
"That's… nearly impossible."
"It is," Celestia confirmed. "According to the records, it's only happened three times in a thousand years. When both parents are from the secondary branch, the feline ancestral bond doesn't activate. But in her case… it did. So by ancient law, her family was elevated directly to the main branch on the day of her birth."
"And what's said of her?"
"That she's intelligent. Strong. Charismatic. The secondary branch sees her as their hope. And though she's young, she's already recovered two minor relics on her own—one in the Paris catacombs, another in the ruins of Petra."
"A tough rival," Nathael said.
"The most unpredictable," Celestia corrected. "Because she has nothing to lose—and everything to gain."
Nathael nodded. He knew what that meant. The young with everything to gain were the most dangerous.
"Eight competitors total?"
"Eight," Celestia said. "You, Anneliese, Karl, Clara, Elisabeth, Elias, Ingrid, and Lukas."
"Good," Nathael said, standing. "Then there'll be no room for mistakes."
Just then, a knock came at the door.
"Come in," Nathael said.
A house-elf entered—silver-embroidered tunic, serious expression.
"Lady Sabine summons you," he said clearly. "The competition is about to begin."
Nathael and Celestia exchanged a look. There was no fear. No doubt. Only resolve.
"Thank you," Nathael said.
The elf nodded and withdrew.
Celestia leapt onto his shoulder, settling like an elegant shadow.
"Ready?"
"Always," said Nathael.
They stepped out of the chamber, walking down the corridor of luminous roots that led to the stadium. Around them, the crowd's murmur grew—excited voices, laughter, the clinking of goblets.
"There goes Nathael!" someone whispered. "They say he defeated five dark wizards in Egypt with his hands bound!"
"Not five—seven!" another corrected.
"And his cat speaks in verse when she drinks star dust!"
"Hush!" an old woman snapped. "Today isn't about rumors! Today is about blood, honor, and the weight of eighty years!"
Nathael didn't listen. He only walked—head high, heart steady, Celestia at his side.