The Chronicles of Blood and Fire (HP Fanfic)

Caelum emerged from the sacred cave in silence, his boots crunching softly against the stone path. Twilight had deepened the shadows of the sanctuary, but his golden eyes adjusted easily in the dim.

The vision from the bloodstone echoed in his thoughts—flashes of fire, carnage, blood that cursed and killed, a warrior bathed in flames with eyes like his own. It hadn't answered his questions. It had only opened more.

The elder was waiting for him at the threshold of the cave, silent as ever. His crimson eyes met Caelum's.

Caelum drew a breath, ready to speak, but the elder held up a hand.

"The stone has judged you," the elder said evenly. "What it revealed is what it deemed necessary. Any more than that, you must uncover yourself."

The words rang final—unchallengeable. The vampire's voice held no malice, no sympathy. Only truth.

Caelum gave a respectful nod, swallowing his frustration. "Thank you… for allowing me to come this far."

The elder said nothing more, only stepped aside as Caelum walked past him, leaving the ancient place behind.

It was dusk now. The Forbidden Forest whispered around him, wind curling through the trees like distant breath. The path back was easier than the journey in—not because it was less dangerous, but because something in Caelum had changed.

The movement ability he'd been trying to master finally snapped into clarity. The shadow beneath him stretched, twisting like tendrils of smoke, coiling up around his body. Then—without sound or warning—he vanished, only to reappear tens of meters ahead in a flicker of darkness.

Unlike the traditional vampire trait of gliding within shadows, what had awakened in him felt different. It wasn't merging or hiding—it was tearing through space in short, precise bursts. A form of shadow-steeped teleportation, but bound by his line of sight. He could only manage it a few times in quick succession before the strain became too much—for now.

But it was enough. Enough to carry him swiftly toward the forest's edge. This gift, this instinctual leap through darkness, he would call Voltis.

There was another gift in his veins now, one he hadn't dared to try yet: blood magic.

A power he instinctively knew could destroy, rot, control. And once used, could not be taken back.

By the time he reached the outer perimeter, the stars were just beginning to prick the sky. A familiar voice broke the stillness.

"Bloody finally!" Bastian barked, arms crossed, face drawn tight with worry poorly disguised as irritation. "Another five minutes and I'd have stormed the Auror Office myself."

"You're alright?" Evran asked, eyes narrowing as he took in Caelum's appearance.

Vesper said nothing at first. Her eyes scanned Caelum with precision, noticing the faint signs of battle—the tears on his robes, the scratches across his neck and sleeves. But she didn't pry.

"I'm glad you're back," she said softly.

Caelum nodded. "So am I."

…

Back within the sanctuary, far behind them, the elder stood alone beneath the moonlit trees.

The woman from before approached, her voice low.

"The stone's resonance… it won't go unnoticed. They must have felt it by now."

He didn't look at her.

"They will come," she pressed. "Why didn't you warn the boy? Why not tell him the truth?"

"We are vassals," he replied. "Sworn and bound to duty. Whether those traitors come for him or not... is part of his path and his fate. Our binding to this place is complete. Our duty is done."

He turned, his robe whispering against the stone. "It is time to move on."

…

Far away, in a hidden fold of the Carpathian Mountains, a grand castle rose from the rock like a black crown. Warded from all mortal sight, it stood silent and ancient, towers piercing the low clouds, its walls steeped in shadow.

Within, in a room sealed from all outside light, a man stood delivering his report to a figure behind a heavy desk shrouded in darkness.

"…local wizarding presence remains ignorant," he reported to the figure seated in the shadows behind the desk. "There are also rumors of a wraith sightings near Albania, but nothing conclusive."

Before the man could finish, the heavy doors creaked open.

Another man stumbled in, breathing heavily. The first messenger turned in alarm.

The one behind the desk looked up, displeased.

"I said no interruptions—"

"Apologies, my lord. The Vaultkeeper reports… one of the artifacts has stirred."

A cold silence fell over the room.

"Which one?" came the voice behind the desk—cold, smooth, ancient.

"it's the Torch," the second man said.

The seated man finally stirred, pushing back his chair. His face emerged into the low candlelight: ageless, commanding, skin pale as frost. His crimson eyes gleamed with slow-burning intelligence—rimmed at the edge with faint gold specks, a mark no one dared mention aloud..

He was Lucian Vortelan, Patriarch of the oldest vampire covenant in Romania.

He stepped toward the far wall, where a grand tapestry hung—woven in deep crimson and jet black. It depicted a vampire warrior standing in triumph, a spear driven through the chest of a fallen foe.

But if one looked closer—truly studied it—there it was: faint but unmistakable, etched onto the enemy's battered armor.

The mark of the vanquished.

A coiled serpent, wreathed in flame.

Lucian's eyes lingered on it.

"It seems," he said quietly, "that the boy has awakened the blood."

He turned to the room, his voice gaining weight.

"Prepare everything. We are no longer waiting."

And so, the shadows moved.