The eight competitors walked toward the stadium as if advancing into the heart of the world.
The midday sun shimmered on their robes, cloaks, and ancestral crests. Behind them, the valley's murmur swelled into a roar of anticipation. The eldest—too frail for the heat or the crowd—remained in elevated pavilions, surrounded by magical mirrors that displayed every step, every glance. But the young, the children, distant cousins, and newly elevated members of the secondary branch crowded the amphitheater rails, shouting, clapping, waving scarves embroidered with luck runes.
"Nathael! Nathael!" a group of young girls shrieked from the third row, all in blue cloaks and silver collars. "Bring honor to the main branch!"
Celestia, walking beside him with her tail held high, whispered,
"I was wondering where your fan club was."
Nathael sighed, though a playful smile tugged at his lips.
"It's a curse, being born too handsome."
"Or too arrogant," Celestia retorted, laughing. "Maybe the girls don't see clearly. Or maybe they just want an autograph to sell later."
"I'll sign it in kraken ink," Nathael said. "Increases the resale value."
They reached the center of the stadium, where Sabine awaited them—standing like a statue carved from marble and fire. At her side, Selene watched the competitors with eyes that missed nothing. Her white fur gleamed in the sunlight, and her ancestral collar seemed to drink in the light.
The eight halted in a crescent formation, facing the matriarch. One by one, they bowed—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. Acknowledgment that, no matter who won, they all served the same blood, the same legacy.
Sabine nodded.
Then she raised her hand.
Instantly, her voice boomed across the entire valley—clear, powerful, impossible to ignore—amplified not by modern charms, but by ancestral magic.
"Today, after eighty years, the Tournament of Ancient Blood resumes!"
A collective cry erupted. House-elves launched golden fireworks into the sky. The magical mirrors blinked in unison. Even the trees of the ancestral forest seemed to bow in reverence.
"The Tournament will consist of three trials," Sabine continued. "First: Intellect and Strategy. Second: Bond with the Companion. Third: Combat."
She paused, letting her words sink in.
"Each trial will award points based on performance. The system is simple but fair:
»In each round, the eight competitors will be judged by a council of three: one from the main branch, one from the secondary branch, and an external wizard of renowned honor, secretly invited. Today, that neutral judge is Newt Scamander."
A murmur of awe swept through the stadium.
"The Newt Scamander?" a child whispered. "The one who wrote Fantastic Beasts?"
"The very same!" his father said proudly. "They say he knows every magical creature on the planet!"
"And if he's judging…" an old woman added, "then the trial will be fair. Because Newt doesn't lie—not even to dragons."
Sabine went on:
»Each judge will award a score from 1 to 10, based on specific criteria.
»In the first trial, they will assess: accuracy in interpreting symbols, creativity in solving enigmas, and efficiency in using time.
»In the second, they will evaluate: nonverbal synchrony, shared decision-making, and magical harmony between mage and companion.
»In the third, they will measure: control, combat strategy, and respect for the rules—no permanent harm is allowed, nor dark magic.
»Scores will be tallied. The maximum possible is 90 points. But this is not about perfection. It's about balance. If someone falters in one trial, they may still recover in the next. Because the true Grauheim is not the one who never falls… but the one who always rises."
Another roar surged through the stadium.
"Let the first trial begin!" Sabine declared.
Instantly, the stadium floor trembled. Stones shifted, walls rose, and the air filled with the scent of old parchment, beeswax, and magical ink. In seconds, the battlefield transformed into a vast library—shelves vanishing into mist, floating reading tables, and lamps burning with violet flames.
"By Merlin!" a child gasped from the stands. "It's the Library of Alexandria—but alive!"
"No, fool!" his sister snapped. "It's the Lost Library of the Grauheims! They say it holds books that were never written!"
At the center of the chamber, eight house-elves appeared in perfect synchrony. Each held a small chest, sealed with shifting runes, magical wax, and protective charms glowing in different hues. Beside each chest lay a rolled parchment, a fragment of an incomplete map, and a cipher written in an unknown tongue.
"Eight chests!" someone shouted. "And eight elves! One for each competitor!"
Sabine raised her voice once more.
"The goal of this trial is clear: open your chest.
Not by force. Not by brute magic.
But by intellect.
Using the materials before you—scrolls, maps, ciphers—you must decipher how to deactivate the magical seals protecting it.
The contents of the chest are not the test… but if you succeed, what you find inside may inspire you, guide you… or even grant you a magical advantage.
That is your fortune. Your fate."
A tense murmur rippled through the stands.
Ingrid, flanked by her silver-pawed cat, called out,
"What's inside the chests?"
Sabine smiled—not mockingly, but with mystery.
"Objects once belonging to powerful wizards of forgotten ages.
One belonged to a sorcerer who taught kings to rule without fear.
Another, to a founder of schools whose walls still whisper secrets.
Another, to a jungle witch who spoke with the world's roots.
And another, to an alchemist who turned his pain into magical gold."
"And how will we know if we're right?" Lukas asked, eyes gleaming.
"You don't need to 'guess' who owned it," Sabine clarified. "You only need to open it. The chest will unlock when the enigma is solved. What you find inside… will be a gift from the past."
The crowd erupted in hushed excitement.
"That's brutal!" an elder muttered from his pavilion. "In my day, we only had to translate runes!"
"But far more exciting!" his wife countered. "Look at Nathael! He's already calculating!"
Sabine raised an oak wand and cast a silent spell. Eight glowing runes appeared in the air, spinning like stars.
"The order of selection," she announced.
The runes descended one by one, landing before each competitor:
ElisabethClaraLukasIngridEliasKarlAnnelieseNathael
A collective gasp.
"Nathael chooses last!" a fan club girl shouted. "But he always wins in the end!"
"Shut up, Romilda!" another snapped. "You're ruining the tension!"
One by one, the competitors stepped forward.
Elisabeth—only fourteen but standing like a queen—chose the chest sealed with golden runes. Her white cat sniffed it carefully, then nodded.
Clara, elegant and poised, took the one wrapped in blue silk. Her golden-backed cat purred softly, as if recognizing something familiar.
Lukas grabbed the smallest—a near-jewel box—etched with speed symbols.
Ingrid selected the heaviest, its magical chains dissolving at her touch.
Elias, silent as ever, took the one farthest away—as if he already knew it was his.
Karl, with Orin—the black-eared cat—at his side, didn't hesitate. He took the chest marked with earth and root runes. "The ancestors'," someone murmured.
Anneliese approached the second-to-last. She studied it for three seconds, then took it without a word. Her gaze, as she passed Nathael, was brief—but intense.
And then, only one chest remained: the one wreathed in silver mist.
Nathael walked toward it with steady steps. There was no doubt in his eyes—only curiosity. He lifted the chest.
Without a word, he retreated to a corner of the library, where a floating table awaited. Around him, the other competitors had already scattered, each in their own space, surrounded by scrolls, torn maps, and coded texts.
No one knew which ancient mage was tied to each chest.
No one knew what secret each object held.
But everyone knew one thing: whoever opened their chest first… would gain an advantage no gold could buy.
Meanwhile, on an elevated platform beside the magical screens, two young commentators settled before an enchanted microphone.
"Welcome, Grauheim family!" said the girl, her voice warm and energetic. She wore a green cloak bearing the secondary branch crest and her hair was braided in a shimmering plait. "I'm Mira, and with me is my brother Tobias."
"Hello, everyone!" Tobias said, adjusting his glasses. "If you're watching from the tents or the stands—get ready! Because the first trial of the Tournament of Ancient Blood is about to begin!"
"And what a lineup of favorites we have!" Mira said, smiling. "On one side, we've got Anneliese Grauheim—the family's coldest, sharpest mind—and her adorable companion, Lysander."
"And don't forget the crowd favorite, Nathael!" Tobias interrupted. "Even though he picked last, I saw him writing notes in the air with smoke magic. That man doesn't need time—he needs inspiration!"
"And then there's Elisabeth," Mira added admiringly. "Fourteen years old, elevated from the secondary branch, and already competing with the best. If she wins, she'll be the youngest champion in Tournament history."
"And let's not overlook Karl!" Tobias said. "Williams's brother, Nathael's uncle… and possibly the most experienced of all. If there are traps, he'll see them before they spring."
"But keep an eye on Ingrid," Mira warned. "A natural strategist. They say she once recovered a manuscript by making the guardians betray each other—without even drawing her wand!"
They both laughed.
"Whoever wins," Tobias said, "today isn't just about points. It's about legacy."
"Exactly!" Mira said. "So keep your eyes on the screens, your hearts high… and your bets secret. Because in the Tournament of Ancient Blood, even silence can scream!"
In the stadium, competitors unfurled their scrolls.
Magical quills began to write.
The chests waited.
And time… began to run.