Erwin frowned, piecing together the fragments in his mind after a moment's silence. His parents had been killed by the upper four families, with the Solent, Alva, and Demos houses likely at the heart of it. Since their target was the Cavendish line, eliminating allies made perfect sense. The Stewards must have been next on the list.
He suspected more than one family had been involved—perhaps several. By now, Erwin had a solid grasp of the ancient pure-blood families. The Cavendishes were the strongest, renowned for their cunning strategies. The Stewards couldn't have been far behind.
But one nagging question haunted him: the bloodline. If his parents were dead, why hadn't the Cavendishes' magical inheritance been harvested? The only explanation he could muster was that his father had destroyed it in his final moments, a desperate last stand. But how? And was that ability unique to their line?
Erwin couldn't risk facing that fate himself—pouring everything into toppling an enemy, only to find his own power stripped away. It would be a bitter irony.
He rose to his feet. "Charlotte, wait here. Old Tom, you're with me back to the manor."
They nodded. Two sharp cracks echoed as Apparition swirls engulfed Erwin and Old Tom, vanishing them from the room.
They rematerialized in the shadowed halls of Cavendish Manor. Erwin glanced at his butler. "Apparition? Not bad. I figured the ancient pure-blood families stuck solely to Ancient Magic."
Old Tom bowed. "Thank you, Master. The late master always said Ancient Magic packs a punch, but modern spells are more practical. He insisted we learn them to bolster our skills and adapt to the times."
Erwin nodded, impressed. His father had been ahead of the curve. In his view, magic wasn't inherently superior or inferior—it all came down to the wizard wielding it. Ancient Magic offered raw power; modern spells brought versatility. True strength lay in what you could control.
That reminded him of his own untapped talent for Ancient Magic. It remained locked away. Did it require some divine trigger to awaken, perhaps contact with one of the old gods?
Old Tom trailed him into the manor as Erwin asked idly, "Where did the Stewards source their Ancient Magic? With the gods long gone, how do you even reach them for power?"
The butler explained, "The ancient pure-blood families' grasp on it has weakened considerably since the gods vanished. The gifts they can bestow are limited now—we rely on bloodline legacies. That's why the late master pushed us toward modern spells."
It clicked for Erwin. No wonder Solent's casting felt off compared to the ancient rites he knew. "But the old patriarch seemed to uncover something," Old Tom added. "Details escape me, Master. You'll have to search the records yourself. It involved the gods."
Erwin's interest sharpened. "Then let's not waste time."
Old Tom guided him to the study and paused. "One moment, Master. I'll lift the concealment the late master placed."
Erwin nodded, surprised. He'd spent plenty of time here, yet never sensed a thing.
The butler approached the fireplace, his fingers dancing over the mantel in a precise sequence. Erwin felt a subtle pulse of magic ripple through the air.
Moments later, faint runes etched into the stone began to glow, ancient symbols surfacing like whispers from the past. Old Tom retreated as they shifted, rearranging into crisp letters: "Cavendish Archives."
The runes lifted from the hearth, embedding themselves in the adjacent wall. With a soft grind, a wooden door materialized.
Old Tom gestured. "It's ready, Master."
Erwin watched, transfixed, as the runes dissolved back into innocuous patterns. His fascination with Ancient Magic reignited. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The door sealed behind him with a quiet click. Soft lights flickered on, bathing the chamber in warm illumination. It was sparse: a sturdy desk and chair, a towering bookshelf crammed with tomes. Simple, unassuming.
But his gaze locked on the left wall—a sprawling family tree of the Cavendish line. Many names were strangers to him, branches from distant eras. Unlike the tangled web of the Black family tree in tales he'd heard, this one ran straight as an arrow, embodying their tradition of direct inheritance.
The names climbed from bottom to top, roots at the base nourishing the trunk above. Erwin's own name crowned it all, accompanied by a fresh photo of him as a newborn, eyes still sealed shut.
He lingered on the entry just below his: his parents. A pang of loss hit him, and he sighed.
From his enchanted ring, he drew a small, oval photograph—snapped on a whim not long ago, though he couldn't recall why. It fit perfectly over the old one, seamless, as if meant to be.
Erwin bowed to the tree, a silent tribute, then turned to the bookshelf. The answers he sought lay somewhere in those volumes.
...
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