October 4th, 1895 — Ravencrest Manor, Kent.
The grandfather clock in the hall had long since stopped keeping time, yet its pendulum still swayed faintly as if moved by drafts that did not belong to this world. Atticus found himself in one of the many rooms of the Ravencrest manor. Thick curtains helped to shut out the the flashes of light from the late storm raging across the countryside, leaving only the wavering flame of a dozen candles. Their wax had pooled into pale rivers over the silver that held them erect. A smoldering cigar lay in a crystal ashtray one one of the table nearest him, filling the air with the dueling scents of tobacco and the age of the room itself.
At the center of this room stood Atticus, tall and still as a statue. His hair was dark, neatly combed back and the low light caught in the edges of a well-kept mustache. His shoulders filled his white shirt like a knight's armor; the sleeves rolled to the forearms revealing tattoos set in dark ink. They were of strange symbols with different meanings. The cut of his clothing, the gleam of his boots, all marked him as a man of old lineage and unbending focus and discipline. He could have passed for a military officer if not for the strange circle within which he stood with the edges glowing faintly.
“I am not asking for dominance,” he was saying, voice tight with suppressed frustration. “I am asking for guidance. There must be some precedent for this.”
The air in front of him shimmered, and from the dark corners of the room, pale figures drifted forward, thin, flickering, and translucent. They were the ancestral ghosts of Ravencrest. Their faces were indistinct at first but became more discernible as time passed. Outlines of rich robes and armor, coronets and heavy pendants hinted at wealth and arrogance of generations long departed from the human frame.
Bits of voices answered him, whispering over one another like the rustling of dry leaves.
“... the binding was set...”
“... meddle not in what was sealed...”
“... your pride blinds you, child of our name...”
Atticus, though none of the spirits had yet spoken his name aloud, drew a slow breath. His expression did not waver, though the candlelight trembled as if bending away from their presence. “Then I am to stand idle when I could increase the reach of our influence?” He was livid with disbelief. A deeper voice spoke from the cluster, slow and grave, carrying the weight of command: “You were chosen to rebuild and to remember.”
The wizard's eyes flashed with anger, but only for a heartbeat. “Remembering does not sustain the living,” he said, his voice remaining low and respectful. “Our family could shape the fate of this land, with your guidance. We could extend our reach even further, even into the muggle world, do you not understa...” He fell silent as one of the phantoms moved suddenly closer. A silence followed that was deep and suffocating. The room seemed to contract, the air colder, the walls breathing faintly with old enchantments. When the ghosts spoke again, they did so together, their tones merging into a hollow, echoing unity that filled the room.
“Then learn this, Atticus of the House of Ravencrest:
Many of our name sought empire, and paid for it in blood.
We held power that grew too quickly and devoured us.
The counsel you seek is... patience.”
Many of our name sought empire, and paid for it in blood.
We held power that grew too quickly and devoured us.
The counsel you seek is... patience.”
The candles flared, their flames stretching high and then snapping down to a single guttering glow. The circle at his feet cracked, a thin hiss echoing through the floorboards like a sigh from a something ancient beneath. He stepped back, jaw set and his breath clouding faintly in the sudden chill. For a moment, he seemed ready to argue but only bowed his head slightly, the gesture precise, proud, but weary. “Very well,” he said. “Thank you for you guidance.” With that the ghosts began to fade, one by one, their features dissolving into silver must that bled into the shadows. Only their final words lingered, faint and cold as frost:
“Heed our words, Atticus. As long as the living obey, the dead are never truly gone.”
When silence returned, the wizard stood alone once more. Anger crossed his face in the shadow of the candles burning low. Somewhere in the echoing corridors of the old house, the clock's pendulum gave a series of hollow ticks. Frustration froze him to the spot momentarily before he threw a candelabra against the opposite wall as thunder rumbled through the halls of the manor.
