Arthur barely had time to process the gleaming emblem that lit up like a crest of fire before the door creaked open—and the world changed.
Gone was the quaint bakery and its warm smells. In its place sprawled a private estate, vast and imposing. The driveway was cobbled, the garden perfectly pruned. Magic pulsed from the walls of the mansion beyond, a timeless blend of American charm and British aristocracy. This was old money. This was power that had no need to explain itself.
"Welcome to America," Cassian said, striding ahead, coat billowing. "More specifically... the Reeves Manor. You're in for a lot of pain, nephew—but you might survive. That is, if you do exactly as I say."
Arthur followed, more curious than afraid. Inside, the house was alive with motion. Not bustling—but orderly. Uniformed staff moved in silence. A maid bowed as they passed. A boy a few years older than Arthur, sharp-jawed with steel eyes, watched from a staircase before vanishing into another corridor.
He hadn't even dropped his bag when a woman swept down the main staircase like the queen of some hidden court. Dark hair twisted in a regal bun, a wand tucked through the sash of her dress, her posture demanded respect. Servants paused and nodded as she passed.
"Arthur," she greeted, her voice calm but distant. "I am Lenora Reeves. Cassian's wife."
He nodded, awkward. "Nice to meet you."
Her eyes flicked over him. Not unkind, but cold—like she was evaluating a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
Cassian placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "You'll be staying in the West Wing. Try not to get lost."
As Arthur made his way down the west corridor, he passed enormous windows. Outside, a wide stone courtyard buzzed with movement. Children—no, teens, like him—trained under the late afternoon sun. A boy conjured a sheet of ice and skated across it midair before landing in a roll. Another split a stone block with what looked like wind-enhanced strikes.
Arthur froze. The memory of the trapdoor flashed in his mind. The cold in his veins. The power that surged out of him without warning. Could these kids do what he did—control elements? Or worse... were they training because of it?
The West Wing hallway had carved numbers on each wooden door. He reached the first—marked -1-—and noticed it was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open gently.
Inside, a girl sat on a windowsill, book in hand. Jeans and a slate-colored shirt. She had long black hair, tied lazily at the side, and piercing blue eyes that watched him with unsettling calm. Pretty—and maybe two years older than him.
She looked him up and down before snapping her book shut.
"Oh—sorry," Arthur muttered, backing out. "I didn't mean—"
"No need to leave," she said smoothly. "This is your room, cousin."
Arthur blinked. "Oh. Um... right. I'm Arthur."
Her lips curved into a slow smile. "I know." She slid off the sill and walked toward him, too close for comfort. "And I also know... we're going to be very close."
He instinctively stepped back.
She stopped just short of him, then tilted her head. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in."
She turned at the door, hand on the knob. "My name is Vivienne. But you'll remember it."
She left before he could respond.
That... was weird.
Arthur stared at the bed. It was neatly made, as if waiting for him. The closet held some robes and training clothes. But there was no suitcase. Nothing of his.
Unpacking didn't take long. There wasn't anything to unpack.
Cassian came in just as Arthur was adjusting a pillow.
"Settling in?" he asked. His tone wasn't unkind, but it lacked warmth.
Arthur shrugged. "Kinda. So you're my uncle."
Cassian nodded, walking to the window and looking out over the courtyard. "Philip Reeves. My brother. Stubborn. Brilliant. Too good for the family legacy, or so he thought."
Arthur's gaze narrowed. "Why didn't I know about him?"
"Because he didn't want you to," Cassian said. "He ran from this life. From what it meant to be Reeves. You were never supposed to return."
"Then why bring me here?"
Cassian turned. "Because blood has a way of calling you back."
With that, he left, the door closing like the end of a sentence.
Arthur didn't eat dinner that night. He slept fitfully, wrapped in unfamiliar sheets, haunted by a crest he didn't recognize and memories that didn't belong to him.
Morning came grey and sharp.
A knock jolted him upright. Still in yesterday's clothes, Arthur stumbled to the door and opened it.
A boy stood there—tall, wiry, with dark brown hair slicked back and piercing green eyes that mirrored Cassian's intensity. He looked about twenty.
"Sleep well?" the boy asked. "Don't get used to it. Dad's strict with time."
Arthur rubbed his eyes. "You're Cassian's son?"
"Oldest. Name's Daniel." He tossed a bundle at Arthur.
Arthur caught it—black training clothes with the same glowing crest from the door back at the bakery.
"What's this?" Arthur asked.
"The training uniform," Damien replied. "Wear it. Meet us downstairs in ten. You're already late."
Nine minutes later…
Arthur descended the wide staircase, his boots quiet against the polished stone. The black training suit clung to him like a second skin. It wasn't like anything he'd worn at Hogwarts—sleek, woven with magic, and marked by the silvery crest that shimmered faintly on his back: a phoenix wrapped around a sword, five flames crowning its wings.
In the entrance hall below, five other children waited.
They turned when they heard him.
At the front stood the eldest—Daniel. A falcon sat perched on his left arm, hoodless and alert. The bird turned its head to study Arthur, as if it too were evaluating him.
"You're prompt," the boy said with a lopsided smile. "Dad'll appreciate that. He hates latecomers." He stepped forward.
Arthur nodded, still a bit uncertain. "Arthur."
"Yeah, we know who you are." That came from the second boy, slightly younger than Daniel. He stood straight-backed, arms folded across a thick chest. His voice was calm, deliberate—measured like someone used to control. "I'm Dorian. You'll be training with us from now on."
Before Arthur could reply, someone else moved into view. It was her.
Vivienne.
She wore a long-sleeved training robe this time, dark purple and laced with threads that shimmered like stars. Her black hair was braided down her back, and her pale blue eyes studied Arthur like a mystery she was halfway through solving.
"I didn't scare you off then," she said, smiling just slightly.
Arthur shrugged. "Almost."
"Figures," she said. "But you made it. That counts." Then, lowering her voice, she leaned a little closer. "Let me guess—you had a weird dream last night, didn't you?"
He blinked. "What?"
But before he could press further, the last two boys stepped forward.
The first, about twelve, had silver-blonde hair and eyes like frozen lakes. Frost clung to his collar—not decoratively, but alive, creeping gently as if reacting to his mood.
"Micah," he said simply. His voice was cold but not unfriendly.
Beside him, the youngest bounced on his heels. He had tousled black curls, eyes like polished obsidian, and an almost reckless grin.
"I'm Liam!" he said brightly. "You're Arthur! Your hair's awesome!"
Arthur blinked. "Thanks…?"
Micah rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. He talks too much."
"I do not!" Liam grinned wider. "You'll get used to me."
Arthur chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. They weren't what he expected—not cold, not unkind. Just… different. Their energies were strong, alive. Magnetic.
Just then, the falcon on Daniel's arm gave a short, sharp trill and tilted its head toward Arthur.
"Another one. Finally."
Arthur blinked.
The voice was clear—too clear. Not a sound, but a knowing. A thread of thought that brushed across his mind like a whisper in a familiar tongue.
The animal conversing thing, he thought.
It had been a while since it happened. Perhaps due to Elira's absence. He stiffened.
"Another what?" he asked aloud before he could stop himself.
The room paused.
Daniel's eyes sharpened. Vivienne turned slowly toward him.
The falcon didn't speak again, but Arthur could still feel the weight of its gaze. Intelligent. Judging.
Arthur swallowed and tried to cover it. "Sorry, I just… thought I heard something."
"You did," Daniel said carefully, watching him too closely now. "Did you understand it?"
Arthur hesitated, then nodded—slow, uncertain. "I think so."
Daniel didn't reply right away. His falcon shifted its wings, but he didn't look at it.
He looked at Arthur.
With new interest.
And maybe something deeper—recognition.
Vivienne, nearby, tilted her head and murmured, "You feel it, don't you?"
Arthur blinked. "Feel what?"
"The air," she said cryptically. "The shift. It happens when the circle's almost complete."
Before Arthur could ask what she meant—
CLACK.
The front door swung open.
Cassian Reeves stepped in like a storm on legs. A long black coat, high boots, and a presence that froze the very room. The falcon on Daniel's arm screeched once, as if announcing him.
Instantly, the five fell silent.
They stood straighter.
Vivienne tucked her braid behind her ear. Dorian lowered his arms to his sides. Micah and Liam snapped into line like soldiers. Daniel gave Arthur a final glance—quiet, thoughtful—then joined them.
Arthur followed their cue—rushing into position, heart pounding.
Cassian's eyes swept over them all. Cold. Calculating.
"Line up," he said.
They already had.
A flicker of approval, maybe. Or maybe not.
"You'll speak when spoken to. You'll listen when taught. You'll fail. And then you'll grow. Because failure, in this house, is not a mark of shame—it's a requirement. If you're not failing, you're not trying hard enough."
He paused, looking directly at Arthur, as if giving that a moment to land.
"Now," he said, turning on his heel, "outside. The training ground is waiting.
They moved.
Arthur, still breathless from the speed at which everything shifted, found himself walking with them—part of a formation he didn't yet understand.
But one thing was clear:
This wasn't Hogwarts.
This was the Reeves House.
And it was alive with power.
The sun was dipping low, bleeding fire across the distant hills when they dragged themselves back into the manor. Their black training suits were scuffed, soaked, and clinging to sore muscles. Arthur's lungs still burned from the last exercise—sprinting while holding a protective ward and dodging projectiles that felt suspiciously like actual spells.
His legs trembled with each step as they passed through the main hallway, stone cold against the soles of their boots.
Cassian's words echoed in his head: "This is not Hogwarts. This is war prep."
Arthur exhaled shakily, leaning against the archway, sweat dripping down the side of his face. "So… this is hell," he muttered to no one in particular.
"You got that right," came a voice behind him.
Dorian.
He moved like a ghost—quiet, steady, bruised just under one eye but looking completely unfazed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave Arthur a half-smirk.
"I've been doing this practically all my life, and I still haven't gotten used to it. Wandless casting, concealment cloaks that fight back, potions that turn your insides cold before you master them. One time," he added casually, "we had to tame a dragon."
Arthur froze. "A what?"
His hair turned stark white in a flash of shock.
Dorian blinked. Then burst into laughter.
"Oh, that's priceless."
"Dory, don't scare the boy off before his time."
Vivienne had appeared like a whisper, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her braid was loosened now, and her voice had the effortless calm of someone who'd barely broken a sweat.
"I told you not to call me that," Dorian growled, glaring at her.
"And yet I keep doing it," Vivienne replied sweetly.
They launched into a playful argument—one laced with insults that sounded almost too rehearsed. Arthur stood between them, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure if he should move or laugh or duck.
He was saved by the arrival of their mother.
Lenora—poised, elegant, and somehow glowing even without any magic—stood at the top of the stairs in a soft gray dress, sleeves embroidered with runes that shimmered like moonlight.
"That's enough," she called out, the faintest smile on her lips. "Dinner's nearly ready. Go wash up, all of you. And no dueling at the table, Dorian."
"I never start it!" he called back.
"Of course not," she replied, eyes twinkling.
The siblings peeled away, running off like it was a competition to see who could get clean fastest. Arthur lingered behind for a moment, watching them go, chest still rising and falling from exhaustion. Then he stepped outside for one last breath of air.
The sky above was fading to a deep indigo. Stars winked quietly into place, one by one.
Arthur looked up.
"Got your letter, Mum…" he murmured under his breath. "And I'm here."
The words felt heavier than he expected.
"If this is what you wanted me to do… I'll make sure you'd be proud of me."
A beat.
"If you were still here."
He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't expect any.
He turned back inside, the manor doors closed behind him with a soft click.