Happy New Year! Thank you all for the support, the comments, the discussions, and the patience this past year. It genuinely means a lot to me. I hope the new year brings you good health, some peace, and or money if you want that. And if it does bring you money, share with me. 60 to 40 is good. Here’s to more stories, ideas, and questionable plot decisions ahead. Cheers!

I’ll do two chapters soon for the new year, but sadly not today!

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Cassian looked at the walls and let out a sound, part dread, part something close to awe.

Yep. This was it.

The bloody great chamber where he’d learned Gravitas Ascendio. One of the first Ancient Variants he’d ever unlocked.

He should’ve clocked it earlier. Goat-hide robes on that statue were practically a glowing signpost. Same as the bloke in that vision.

He ran a hand along the stone nearest to him. The runes were identical.

The chamber curved upward ahead, sloping into something larger. He could see it already, those circuit-like structures cut into the rock, spiralling inward like a trap. And above that, the hollow in the ceiling. Gaping. Waiting.

The massive stone wasn’t in place. It sat off to the side, toppled, thick dust caked along its grooves. It fit the hollow above like a key in a lock, if the key weighed five tonnes and had to be spun mid-air by a man half-certain he might explode doing it.

He circled the stone, checking the base. It wasn’t just a block, it was designed to move. Circular etchings ringed the underside, gears carved straight into the floor. Ancient mechanisms, powered by gods knew what.

He crouched, squinting at the sigils on the inner ring. Back then, the man in goat-hide looked like a sacrifice.

“Don’t suppose anyone here has an emergency crane?” he called out over his shoulder.

He didn’t fancy trying to confirm that firsthand. He wasn’t in the mood to be lunch.

He straightened, brushing grit off his palms. “That thing’s key,” he said, nodding at the toppled slab. “Looks like it slots in above. Whole chamber’s built for it.”

A few of the old masters edged closer. One muttered about alignment. Another started noting the ring geometry in the dirt with a wand tip.

Dumbledore cast a glance around the perimeter, eyes flicking between carvings. “You think it activates once that block is lifted?”

“Probably,” he said, a little too fast.

The old man narrowed his eyes.

Cassian didn’t blink. “Might open the rest. Might kill us all. Who’s to say?”

Coriolanus muttered something about “fantastic odds.” Sabine elbowed him in the ribs before he could offer to help move it himself.

One of the Greek curse-breakers stepped closer, eyeing the stone. “It’s balanced weird. Why put a pivot mechanism on something you don’t plan to move?”

One of the French delegates asked, “Can it be raised without setting anything off?”

Cassian gave him a look. “You volunteering to find out?”

No answer.

Didn’t think so.

They spent the next half-day crawling over every inch of the chamber. The Old Masters moved like ants with bad knees and better memories, wands flicking, parchment flying. Half the group was already grumbling about sore backs, but none of them stopped. They weren’t leaving until they’d copied every line twice, some of them three times. The entire perimeter had been mapped and etched onto scrolls faster than most Ministry departments processed a floo request.

Cassian didn’t get involved unless someone did something particularly idiotic, like mistaking a fractured seal for a decorative border.

No one had figured out how to lift the stone yet, not without setting something off. A Syrian Historian had tried probing the gears underneath and nearly got his eyebrows taken off. Turned out the ring beneath had a defence trigger keyed to movement without clearance. Cassian hadn’t laughed. Out loud.

He also realised why Gravitas Ascendio was made for this sort of work. Wingardium Leviosa could lift objects, sure, but it demanded constant magic to hold the weight, like trying to keep a balloon up with a straw and your lungs giving out halfway through. The strain warped the balance. And when you needed something to spin and stay steady mid-air, that little wobble turned into a death sentence.

This slab wasn’t meant to float gently into place. It had to rise, lock, and rotate in perfect alignment with those rings carved into the ceiling. Levitation alone wouldn’t cut it. You’d need raw push and rotational control. The kind only Gravitas Ascendio could pull off.

Trying that with Wingardium would be like flying a jet while it spun like a drill. You’d lose control before you could blink. The rotational axis would shift, the levitation field would collapse, and the thing would drop straight back down, probably on your head.

With that many experts crowding one room, it didn’t take long before the theory came together.

Edevane ran her hand along the edge of the slab, brows pinched. “Just lifting it up to the grove won’t cut,” she said, motioning with her wand. “If I’m reading this right, it has to spin. That’s a magical circuit.” She tapped one of the etched rings under the stone. “Weightless spin pulls from the earth currents. That feeds through the columns. What for… not sure yet.”

Ayda hummed, crouching to trace the outer ring. “It’s drawing from a pressure basin. Old, but layered. Whoever built this knew how to bleed ley lines.”

Dumbledore stepped in closer, eyes on the grooves above. “The columns channel upwards. That suggests a transmission, not just containment.”

No one answered.

Coriolanus rubbed his jaw. “We’re assuming the spin’s purely mechanical?”

“Not a chance,” said Edevane. “Look at the runes round the pivot. That’s frequency modulation. You spin this thing wrong, it won’t just jam, it’ll rupture the whole chamber.”

Dumbledore turned to the centre. “Can it be lifted?”

Ayda shook his head. “Won’t be that easy.”

“Anchor’s too unstable,” muttered Edevane. “And if you float it, you’ll lose torque. You need spin and control, not just height.”

Sabine finally broke her silence. “We’ve seen similar mechanisms. Once. In the Balikh ruins. That one collapsed halfway through the turn and buried three people.”

“Good times,” Coriolanus said.

“No one laughed then,” she snapped.

The group fell quiet again.

No one moved to touch the slab.

No one volunteered to be underneath it either.

Which was sensible.

Cassian crouched beside Bathsheda, out of earshot from the others. “Found anything?”

She didn’t look up. “Sacrifice’s not what you think.”

He raised a brow. “Go on.”

She tapped the etched circle beside her with the tip of her wand. “It’s not a blood ritual. It’s a magical drain, built to draw enough raw power to kickstart the whole thing. The slab, the rotation, the seal, it’s like a giant ignition switch. Just needs fuel.”

Cassian tilted his head. “So… won’t suck me dry?”

“No. Not unless someone gets clever. It’s an energy pool system. Meant to pull from a collective source. Normally that kind of draw would leave a person wrecked. But with this many of us here…” She glanced toward the rest of the chamber, where half the best magicks on the continent were either arguing over geometry or fiddling with notes. “Some of them are powerhouses. If everyone contributes a bit… it’d barely scratch them.”

Cassian’s frown didn’t shift. “Are you sure you aren’t done with me?”

“No.” She looked at him now. “We pour into you. While you lift it.”

He blinked. “Oh, good. No pressure.”

She chuckled lightly. “You don’t have to. We can walk away. This whole chamber could stay shut another twelve thousand years and no one’d fault you.”

Cassian stared at the stone ring. The air around it still felt charged, like static just waiting for the wrong touch. His mouth was dry.

He should leave it. He should. Walk out, let the curse-breakers circle it for another decade, write papers, argue in footnotes, and never go near it again.

But this place…

This cursed, ancient, cracked-beyond-reason place…

Göbekli Tepe had been calling to him long before they ever stepped foot on the dust. It had bled into his notes, his readings, that half-dreamed pull he’d never shaken since waking in this life.

And now it wasn’t just calling. It was looking.

That same pressure pressed against the base of his skull, like fingers curled just behind the eyes.

Bathsheda leaned in slightly. “You alright?”

He didn’t answer.

A voice nudged him, faint, buried under thought.

Can’t you see it yet? This place is staring back at you.

Cassian sighed, sharp through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I noticed.”

He glanced at Bathsheda, who nodded and stepped in. Cassian took a breath as he stood, shaking stone dust off his trousers. “Gather round. We might’ve found something.”

That got people moving.

“It’s a charge-based mechanism,” Bathsheda said, tapping the edge of the slab with her boot. “Doesn’t respond to single input. Needs a collective surge. Magic pooled and funnelled.”

Cassian pointed to the floor ring. “We do that, everything else might open.”

A few people exchanged wary looks.

“Problem is,” Bathsheda went on, “Normal levitation won’t do. Not with this weight. And any slip in the spin, the slab’ll collapse back and crush the anchor.”

“Anchor being the floor,” muttered one of the Turkish curse-breakers.

“Anchor being whoever’s under it,” Cassian corrected. “But good optimism.”

A few exchanged looks. One of the French curse-breakers shifted awkwardly. “We still don’t know how to slot it in.”

“I do,” Cassian said. “You don’t need to. You’re not lifting it.”

Murmurs started again. He ignored them.

“You’ll feed into me. That’s all.”

It went quiet for a second longer than it should’ve. The kind of silence that implied someone in the room was mentally drafting a legal waiver.

Dumbledore, standing behind the old masters, raised a brow but said nothing. A few of them exchanged looks.

Ayda spoke first. “We’d have to stabilise the field. Letting too many flow at once could fry the caster.”

“Then you modulate it,” Cassian said. “You’re old. You’ve done rituals. Buffer it through a grounding loop or whatever clever method you’d like. I’m only holding it for thirty seconds.”

Bathsheda had already begun carving runes along the inner circle. “He can take it. But if the timing’s off by even a second, the whole seal kicks back. So no one messes with the flow. No clever boosts or tuning it ‘just a little.’ And definitely no dramatic chanting.”

“You always take the fun out of things,” muttered Coriolanus behind her.

She didn’t look up. “That’s why we’re still alive.”

Ayda looked at Cassian. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Cassian said. “But I’m the only one who can line it properly. And if I’m wrong, at least I die doing something daft and historically significant.”

One of the younger Frenchmen muttered something about suicide-by-slab.

Cassian shot him a look. “If it makes you feel better, you can dedicate a park bench in my name.”

Bathsheda smacked the chalk flat against the stone. “Let’s get the circle stabilised. Anyone still unsure can leave. We’re not holding hands.”

Cassian raised both hands, fingers splayed. “Right. Any other questions? No? Good. Let’s do this before my joints seize.”

He set his feet. “On my mark, start feeding it in. Keep it even. Don’t panic if your hair stands up. If mine stands up, take a picture.”

Bathsheda moved beside him. “Ready.”

“Three…” His hand twitched.

“Two…”

The room held its breath.

“One.”

Light hit him like a slap to the spine.

Magic hit him like a freight train.

The second the flow started, it tore through his ribs and spine like molten wire. Dozens of currents, sharp and fast, poured into him from every direction… too much, too strong. Power from ten countries, half a dozen disciplines crashing straight into his chest.

The slab groaned, stone grinding as it rose off the floor, slow, juddering, then smoother as his magic caught the weight. Cassian clenched his jaw, guiding it up, palms flat.

It floated high, turned once, then twice.

He twisted his wand in a tight arc, dragging the gravity with it.

Gravitas Ascendio.

The stone pivoted mid-air, spinning on its own axis. Circles below began to glow, lines threading gold through the floor.

Sweat dripped down his temple.

The slab climbed higher.

A final turn… click.

It locked into the ceiling with a sound like thunder cracking inside a vault.

And then… silence.

Cassian didn’t move. Just stood there, eyes closed, chest heaving.

He staggered, boots grinding against the stone. His breath left him in a hard grunt. Hands clenched tight, he forced the rotation, pushed the slab higher, kept the spin steady.

He remembered the chants from the vision.

Wake… wake… wake, and heed my command.

He doubted they were required, ritual fluff for long-dead dramatics, but it still gave him an uneasy feeling.

A deep hum filled the air. Everyone felt it in their bones. The runes were burning now, shifting in sequence, one pattern devouring another. The slab locked fully into its groove and began to rotate.

Bathsheda shouted again, “Cassian, stop!”

He couldn’t. The spell had hold of him, pulling through his core, through every channel of magic he owned. His chest felt too tight. The pressure climbed until it hurt to breathe.

It was like trying to drink the sea. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t slow it, could barely direct it. Every thread was alive, sparking down his arms, crackling along his ribs, bleeding from his fingertips. He felt his heartbeat trip, double, then settle into something far too fast.

He could feel every rune in the slab above him.

Every etched groove in the floor.

He could feel the chamber breathing.

A laugh almost tore itself loose. Gods, was this what it felt like to have too much magic?

“Unlimited Power!”

Something warm trickled from his nose.

Then his arms burned. Sharp lines flared down his forearms, under the skin, thin, bright cuts as if he’d been clawed from the inside. Blood welled up, mixed with the magic, hissed against the air.

Didn’t matter.

The slab spun. The ring lit up.

Power kept pouring in. He swayed, caught himself, then nearly dropped as a new wave surged through his core. He didn’t even know who it was, someone old, someone angry, someone whose magic tasted like iron and lightning. It cracked through him and made his knees buckle.

He was floating.

Blood hit the floor in soft drips.

Behind him, someone shouted.

The air snapped shut around him.

Power cut off, like a rope yanked from his ribs.

Cassian dropped to one knee, choking on a breath that didn’t want to come. The glow in the floor faded. The humming stopped.

He coughed, hard, spat blood.

Then…

A crack split the chamber.

The light blew outward.

Dumbledore stepped forward, robes dragging through dust. “What did you-“

The rest of his words drowned under the sound of stone shifting far below them.

Then the shaking stopped.

The chamber steadied into a low hum, deep and rhythmic, like a machine finding its pace again. He doubled over, coughing more blood. His nose was bleeding freely, dripping onto the stone.

Bathsheda was beside him before he could reach for his handkerchief, pressing one firmly to his face instead. “You absolute fool,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut through the ringing in his ears.

He mumbled through the cloth, “That’s the second time in two months. I’m getting better at it.”

Her hand came down on the back of his head. Hard.

“Ow.” He winced, rubbing the spot. “Well, I deserved that.”

Bathsheda gave him a look that could’ve soured milk but didn’t say anything else.

***

They walked, slow and cautious, through the newly opened path. The walls glowed faintly with residual magic, script crawling faintly across them like ink that couldn’t settle.

When the tunnel widened into another chamber, Cassian stopped dead.

The breath went right out of him.

He dropped straight on his arse… again.

“Cass?” Bathsheda reached for him, startled. “What is it?”

He stared at the centre of the room, the same curved design, the same half-buried glyphs, the same arrangement of rings spiralling toward a hollowed pit. His throat went dry.

For the third time… he knew this place.

“It can’t be.” He felt something reaching and clenching his heart right in his ribcage. He couldn’t breathe.

This place… This damned place… The one where he’d learned Prior Vinculatus.

The one that ended in silent screaming.

Amphora Vox.

Djinn.

(Check Here)

Do you know why stars explode millions of years later? Because we’re only here to witness it. If you don’t record my fic exploding, it’ll be delayed another few million years. Despite my pen name, I doubt I can live that long.

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