A week passed beneath a quiet veil at the White Manor.
The atmosphere had grown heavier with each passing day, as if the very walls sensed the weight of what was coming. Elijah White had grown visibly weaker—his steps slower, his hands trembling ever so slightly, his voice thinner. And yet, he never faltered in his dignity.
Tonight, the moon was full, casting a pale glow over the manor grounds, illuminating the gardens with silver fire.
It was the promised night—the Ritual of Ascension.
Eira emerged from her room draped in solemn, black ceremonial robes. The fabric shimmered faintly with ancient runes embroidered in silver thread, a mark of her lineage. Her hair, left loose, flowed down her back like white silk. As she descended the grand staircase, she saw her grandfather waiting at the corridor's end, upright and regal despite the toll of the curse.
He smiled faintly when he saw her.
"You're ready," he said simply, his voice hushed but clear.
Eira nodded. "Yes."
"Then let us go."
Together, they walked across the frost-touched gardens, their footsteps crunching on the grass. At the far end, past the hedge-lined path and beyond the winter-bare rose trees, stood a small, stone structure—modest in size, but heavy with history.
It was the sanctuary. The burial place of the White family.
Elijah raised his wand, and the massive stone doors shuddered, then slowly parted with a deep, grinding moan. Cold air rushed out from within.
They stepped inside.
A staircase led down into the earth, and as they descended, lanterns flared to life along the walls—no flame, just ancient magic awakening after long slumber.
The corridor below was vast and silent. Along its marble walls, names were carved in aged stone—each marking the resting place of a White ancestor. The deeper they walked, the more ancient the inscriptions became, the language shifting from modern English to Latin, and eventually, to elder runes.
Eira walked in silence, her breath shallow as she read the names.
At the corridor's end stood a solitary door, unlike the others. Upon it, delicately etched in silver, was a name:
Aeliana White (née Arcturusveil)
Elijah stopped before it and turned to his granddaughter.
"Do you remember what I once told you? That the founder of our family was a woman?"
Eira nodded. "You said she chose to conceal her identity. Her real name, her origins… and even the location of her tomb."
Elijah placed a hand gently on the door. "Yes. Because only the reigning Lord—and the next heir—are allowed to know the truth. And now, it is your time."
Eira's eyes fell on the name again. Arcturusveil. She frowned. "Then… she belonged to another family. A different bloodline?"
Elijah nodded gravely. "A very old one. One that predates the founding of Hogwarts. Long before the British Isles became what they are now—back when the land was a patchwork of warring kingdoms and druid clans—her family was one of the most powerful magical lineages of that time."
He paused. "That is why she changed her name. To protect the family she intended to build. Because the Arcturusveil name was tied to power, yes, but also to bloodshed."
Eira looked at the inscription, her brow furrowed. "But… why abandon that legacy? Why not use that name? And what kind of bloodshed?"
Elijah gave a low chuckle, filled with dry amusement. "Because she was not the only heir. She had a half-brother—the founder of the Black family."
Eira froze. "The Black family?"
"Yes," Elijah said. "They were both children of the same father, born to different mothers. When the patriarch of the Arcturusveil line passed, a brutal struggle began between the siblings for succession. Years of infighting, duels, curses, assassinations. But in the end… neither prevailed."
He stepped closer to the door and continued. "So they made a pact. They divided the inheritance—lands, artifacts, wealth—down the middle. But neither would claim the family name. It was too dangerous. Too contested. And a name without inheritance meant nothing."
Eira stared at him, stunned. "So they both chose new names. Out of spite?"
"Exactly," Elijah said with a sardonic smile. "She became 'White,' and he chose 'Black.' Opposites in name, born of the same blood."
She shook her head slowly. "So all these centuries of rivalry… all the hatred between the Whites and the Blacks… it started because of a family feud?"
"Because of pride. Because of blood," Elijah said. "And over generations, that feud turned into legacy. Our families clashed dozens of times throughout history—through alliances, through politics, through war. And yet… we are more alike than any other magical families on the continent."
He gestured toward the door. "This tomb belongs to the woman whose blood runs through both our veins."
Eira took a hesitant step forward. "What was she like?"
"In all surviving records," Elijah said softly, "Aeliana White was described as a woman of immense power. She had hair white as snow… and eyes like emerald forest . Sound familiar?"
Eira's breath caught in her throat.
"She looked like me."
"She was you, Eira. In spirit. In strength. She forged this family out of ash and fury. And now, it's your turn to lead it."
Elijah placed a hand on her shoulder. "It is tradition for the outgoing Lord to tell the heir this truth—once, and only once. You are not to share it with anyone. Not even your closest confidante. Only your future heir may know."
Eira nodded slowly, solemnly. "I understand."
"Then come," Elijah said. "It is time."
They turned from the tomb and walked deeper into the sanctum, past the rows of ancestors who had watched over their line for generations. Finally, they reached the Ritual Chamber—a vast circular space with runes etched into every inch of its stone floor.
The chamber was already prepared.
Candles burned in floating orbs of pale gold. At the center stood a tall pedestal, upon which rested the Sigil of the Whites—a silver circlet shaped like intertwining serpents and wings, glowing faintly with magic older than time.
Elijah took his place beside the pedestal and raised his wand. "Kneel."
Eira dropped to one knee before him.
The air turned cold, as the wind from nowhere swept through the chamber. The flames of the candles flickered, but did not go out.
"Eira Aeliana White," Elijah said, his voice reverberating with ritual magic, "you are my granddaughter by blood, and by soul. Do you vow to protect this family, its name, and its legacy with your life?"
"I do," Eira replied.
"Do you swear to honor its magic, to uphold its traditions, and to shape its future without fear?"
"I do."
"Then rise, and take your place."
Eira stood, and Elijah—trembling, but resolute—lifted the circlet and placed it upon her head.
The moment it touched her, the runes in the chamber ignited in a circle of white light, and Eira felt a pulse of energy rush through her body—warm, ancient, powerful. It filled her veins with a strength she had never known.
Elijah stepped back, his face pale but proud.
"It is done," he whispered.
And then he collapsed.
"Grandfather!"
Eira rushed to catch him as Emma ran into the chamber, breathless.
Elijah was still breathing, but barely. He looked up at Eira and smiled faintly. "You… wear it well."
"Don't speak," Eira said, tears welling in her eyes. "Just rest. Please."
"I've done my part," he whispered, his voice heavy with finality. "Now, Eira, the rest is in your hands. Your final test is Cecil—deal with him. Never bow to anyone, never let fear guide you, and never bring dishonor to yourself or our family."
As his eyes fluttered shut, Lord Elijah of the White family surrendered to the Curse that had tormented him for years. In his final moments, he named his granddaughter, Eira white , the new Lady of the White family, passing the mantle of their ancient, star-woven legacy to her.