Caelum was exhausted.
His breaths came in ragged pulls, each one scraping his throat like broken glass. His hands trembled, shoulders heaving, robes torn and scorched. The searing heat of battle clung to him like oil.
A fist swung from the side.
With no room to evade, he raised an arm just in time to block—pain exploded up the limb as the blow hurled him sideways, crashing into the sand with a heavy thud.
But he got up. Always up.
Teeth gritted, he lifted his wand. "Protego!" A shimmering shield flared into existence just in time to block another crushing strike from the advancing shadow.
Too close.
"Depulso!" he cast, simultaneously invoking Voltis—his body blurred, vanished into smoke, and reappeared several meters away, kicking up sand in his wake.
Seventeen.
There were seventeen shadows now.
He could feel it. The pattern was clear: each wave added two more. After the first shadow came three. Then five. Then seven. And so on. Always more. Ceaseless. Endless.
And Caelum… he didn't know how many waves were left. Or if it ever truly ended.
He could barely stand.
The only thing keeping him upright was will—and the small, bright flame pulsing at his shoulder.
Luxardent.
His magic had grown stronger—yes—but it was wild. Raw. Unpredictable. Ever since the ritual, he'd felt as though he were holding a storm behind his ribs.
But now… through this crucible, the storm was learning to obey.
The relentless pursuit and pressure of the trial forced him to the edge—pushing him to wield his magic at its limit, refining his control with every clash, every breath, every heartbeat.
Caelum's vast arsenal—built from years of fragmented memories, obsessive reading, and relentless practice—came to bear now.
He pivoted sharply, flicking his wand. "Glacius!"
A wave of frost shot forward, freezing one shadow mid-stride. He followed it immediately with a blast of Luxardent—the blue-white flame roared through the frozen figure like a lance, shattering it. It didn't rise again.
…
Back in the chamber far above, Dumbledore stood in silence.
He had felt the shift in magic the moment it began.
When he reached the inner part of the sealed chamber, the sight that greeted him was unmistakable: Caelum, wrapped in ancestral flame, arm inside the monolith, and then—gone.
The old wizard adjusted his half-moon glasses.
"…Now," he murmured softly to himself, "…what to do."
…
The tenth wave had long since begun.
Three shadows remained.
They attacked in tandem, weaving patterns of assault honed by instinct and dark memory. Caelum shifted between his solid form and the crackling burst of Voltis, dancing just beyond their reach.
His limbs screamed. His lungs burned.
But he was… calm.
In the heat of combat, something within him had stilled. His magic—no longer surging in erratic bursts—flowed with precision. The wild edges had been polished, honed in the forge of fire and blood.
Even if he left here with nothing else… that alone was worth it.
"Levioso," he muttered, lifting one of the distant shadows into the air.
"Descendo." He slammed it into the ground like a comet.
The other two charged.
Caelum turned, calculated. The perfect line.
He moved like liquid flame—backpedaled, slid across the sand, then twisted into place.
"Line them up, Lux."
The fire bat let out a chirp, curling around his left forearm, coiling.
A single breath. A pulse.
"Ignis Obscura."
The blast ripped through all three in a searing column of light and force. Their bodies collapsed into the sand, smoke rising, then—like all the rest—they melted into the earth. The black-stained grains drank them in.
Silence.
Caelum stood still, waiting.
But no more shadows came.
Only silence.
He looked around—warily at first—but the figures that had once encircled him began to fade, receding into mist and shadow. Gone.
And then the sand beneath his feet began to shift.
The blackened earth—marked by every shadow he had slain—was moving. It crept toward him, slow but deliberate, like ink spilled on parchment. It circled, spiraling inward, Caelum at its heart.
He didn't resist.
He could feel it.
The trial was over.
For now.
There would be more. Greater challenges. Deeper truths. The road of the heir was never meant to be easy. But there would also be more to gain.
The sand climbed his legs, wrapped his chest, rose to his throat—and finally to his head.
He closed his eyes.
And vanished.
….
Back in the sealed chamber beneath Hogwarts, the flames in the monolith flared once—brilliant and sharp.
Then—
Caelum reappeared.
He dropped to one knee on the stone floor, smoke and steams curling off his shoulders, breathing hard. But he was alive.
And changed.
Chirp.
Caelum froze.
That sound—soft, clear, and filled with a warmth unlike anything else—cut through the lingering haze in his mind.
He turned.
Behind him, perched on the curved edge of the chamber's archway, was the world's most famous phoenix.