The smoke had cleared. The blood had dried. Blackmoor Academy still stood, though parts of it bore the scars of the battle they had survived.
In the center courtyard, where the marble fountain once danced with water and magic, rubble now replaced grace. A temporary memorial stood where students and teachers had placed candles, notes, and flowers in honor of the fallen. No one spoke too loudly in that space.
But the sky was clear today, painted with strokes of blue and gold. For the first time in what felt like forever, the academy wasn't echoing with alarms or screams.
Hope stood at the edge of the courtyard, hands tucked into her coat pockets, eyes on the memorial.
She hadn't slept much in days.
Beside her, London said nothing. He'd been quieter since his resurrection. Not because he was scared—he wasn't. But something had changed in him. Dying, even if you come back, does that.
She glanced at him.
His eyes were on the horizon. Not distant in an absent way—more like he was watching something only he could see.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
He nodded once, then after a pause, said, "I saw my mother."
Hope turned to him fully. "What?"
"When I died. I don't remember much, but I remember her face. Her voice. She said, 'Not yet, my boy. There's more to do.'" He looked down at his hands. "I think… I think I've always been more than just some powerless kid. I just never knew how much."
Hope took a breath, stepping closer. "You're not just anything, London. You never were."
He gave her a faint smile.
Across the courtyard, students began sweeping up debris with flicks of their wands or enchanted brooms. Some worked without magic, choosing their hands over spells, perhaps as a form of penance or remembrance.
Near the library steps, Jessa sat with Raphael. She had her head leaned on his shoulder, her eyes half-closed as he talked animatedly—probably about some ridiculous werewolf ritual involving food or moonlight wrestling. He seemed to be making her laugh again, and that was something.
Celeste, however, was alone. Again.
She sat beneath the weeping silverleaf tree, a book open on her lap but unread. Her eyes, dark and searching, watched everyone. When Hope's gaze lingered too long, Celeste looked up and offered a smile—a hollow one.
Hope frowned. Celeste had been quiet since the attack. Too quiet. She'd helped in the battle, healed the injured, fought back with everything she had. But she hadn't said a word about where she'd disappeared to the day before the assault… or why she came back so suddenly.
"Have you talked to her?" Hope asked London.
He shook his head. "She's not ready."
Neither of them noticed the figure watching from the shattered upper window of the bell tower—the one they thought had been destroyed in the fire. A flicker of movement, gone in an instant.
---
Later that evening, Headmistress Varyn gathered everyone in the Great Hall. For the first time, students and staff filled it not in fear or mourning, but in something resembling unity.
"The worst has passed," she said, her voice echoing through the vaulted space. "You have survived. You have proven what Blackmoor stands for."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. There were still empty seats, reminders of who hadn't made it.
"We will rebuild. Stronger. Smarter. Together."
Hope watched the room. Every face bore some kind of mark—scars, bruises, dried tears. But also… pride. Resilience.
London took her hand under the long table. She didn't pull away.
Jessa clapped. Raphael howled. Literally.
Stephen threw up a goblet and shouted, "To not dying!" which was met with laughter—tired, but real.
Daemon, standing behind him, merely sighed. But Hope saw the smallest twitch of a smile.
Celeste clapped along with the others, but her eyes flicked to the ceiling. To the shadows high above the floating candles.
Something wasn't right.
But no one else noticed. Not yet.
---
In the girls' dormitory later that night, Hope leaned against her window, watching moonlight fall over the campus. The walls had been patched with spells. The windows replaced. But something told her this peace wouldn't last.
And she was right.
Because deep beneath the school, in tunnels no one remembered, something old stirred. A heartbeat echoed once. Then again.
The real war had not yet begun.