The star burned in the darkness.
It was not merely bright. Its light had weight. It pressed against Kyosuke's eyes, filled the hollows of his skull, and made the surrounding void seem deeper by contrast.
Mithras stood before him.
The god's gaze lingered on Kyosuke's face with an unsettling intensity. His smile was serene—almost fond—but there was something in it that made Kyosuke feel as though he had been caught doing something foolish.
Kyosuke tried to speak.
Nothing came.
Mithras tilted his head. "You look surprised."
You're talking to me, Kyosuke thought. You just called me by my old name.
The god's smile widened a fraction.
"Ah. There it is. The clever mind, racing away behind the frightened eyes."
Kyosuke swallowed. "You—"
"Still thinking of flying cars?"
The words struck him harder than the light.
Kyosuke stared.
Mithras turned the star in his hand. Its brilliance swept across the dark, briefly revealing the outline of the bull beneath him—the same bull carved into the relief in the chamber.
"You lived in a world that had nearly mastered the sky," Mithras said. "And yet you wanted more. You wanted machines that would carry people above the streets, beyond the roads, beyond the limits imposed upon them."
He looked back at Kyosuke.
"And now you live in a world where magic can lift a broom into the air, and you dream of building flying machines here, too."
Kyosuke's mouth had gone dry.
"How do you know that?"
Mithras did not answer. He regarded him as if the question were amusing.
"Tell me, Kyosuke. Have you ever wondered why you met that woman at the rave?"
The darkness seemed to tighten around him.
The music. The lights. Her face. The moment he had followed her away from the crowd—and the violence that had followed.
Kyosuke took a step back. "What does she have to do with this?"
"Everything. Or nothing." Mithras's voice remained calm. "You have spent a great deal of time wondering whether your life was stolen from you by chance."
"I died," Kyosuke said, anger rising in him before he could understand it.
"Yes," Mithras replied simply.
"I was killed." More frustration edged into his voice.
"Yes," the god said, smiling.
"And then I woke up here." Kyosuke's voice shook. "As a child. In another world. With another family. With—"
"With a prophecy hanging over you?"
Kyosuke fell silent.
Mithras watched him.
"The prophecy was true, wasn't it?" the god asked.
Kyosuke's heart seemed to stop.
He had heard the words before. Not here, not in this impossible darkness—but in fragments, in whispers, in the fearful certainty of people who believed the future had already been written.
He forced himself to meet Mithras's gaze.
"If it was true," he said, "then what does freedom mean? If your prophecy can decide who I meet, how I die, where I wake up—how can I be free?"
For the first time, Mithras's smile did not change.
"My prophecy?" he said. "I am not a god of prophecy, Kyosuke. I am a god who unleashes freedom."
"Then whose prophecy was it?"
The star shone between them.
Mithras did not answer.
Kyosuke felt anger rise through the shock. "You know."
"I know many things."
"Then tell me."
"Would you believe me?"
"I don't know!"
"Good." Mithras's voice sharpened—not loud, but suddenly impossible to ignore. "At least you have not mistaken certainty for truth."
Kyosuke clenched his fists. "You're avoiding the question."
"Of course I am."
The bluntness left him momentarily speechless.
Mithras stepped closer. The star's light fell across Kyosuke's face.
"You want a name," the god said. "A culprit. Someone to blame for the shape of your life. Give you that, and you will spend the rest of your days fighting the name instead of choosing what to do."
"Maybe I deserve to know."
"Perhaps."
"Then tell me."
Mithras looked at him for a long moment.
"No."
The refusal landed like a slap.
Kyosuke's anger flared. "You call yourself a god of freedom, but you won't even—"
"Freedom is not the same as being given every answer."
"Easy for you to say."
"Yes," Mithras replied. "It is."
Mithras's gaze remained on him.
"You say you deserve to know," he continued. "But what does this world deserve? Perhaps it brought you here for a purpose—a purpose greater than building flying machines."
That, somehow, unsettled Kyosuke more than any grand declaration could have.
The god turned his attention to the star. Its light pulsed, and for an instant Kyosuke saw something within it: a road under neon lights, a woman turning her head, headlights rushing toward him. Then the image dissolved.
"Your old life is not a chain," Mithras said. "Nor is this one. The prophecy may have brought you to a threshold. It cannot walk through it for you."
Kyosuke stared at the fading vision.
"Did it bring me here?"
Mithras's expression was unreadable.
"You are here."
"That isn't an answer."
"No," said Mithras. "It is the only one you have."
Kyosuke wanted to shout. He wanted to demand the truth, to seize the star from the god's hand, to force the past to explain itself.
But he was a child standing before something ancient, and the light made him feel very small.
Mithras leaned nearer.
"Listen carefully, Kyosuke. You may spend your life trying to discover whether every door was placed before you by fate. Or you may open one."
"And if the door leads to disaster?"
"Then you will have chosen a disaster of your own."
The god's serene smile returned.
"Not all freedom is pleasant."
The star flared.
Kyosuke raised an arm to shield his eyes. "Wait—"
"One more thing," Mithras said.
The light dimmed just enough for Kyosuke to see his face.
"Do not confuse the person you were with the person you are becoming."
Mithras's voice softened.
"Learn from Clement, Kyosuke. Live for more than yourself."
Then the darkness broke.
Mars woke with a gasp.
For a moment, he could not tell where he was.
The darkness was gone. The star was gone. Mithras—the impossible figure who had risen from the relief and spoken to him—had vanished.
He was back in the Mithraeum.
The stone ceiling hung above him. The lamps still burned along the walls. The carved relief of Mithras and the bull stood in its place, motionless and silent.
Mars stared at it.
He could still see the star in his mind.
Learn from Clement, Kyosuke. Live for more than yourself.
"Mars!"
Luxia's voice cut through the chamber.
His mother hurried to him and dropped beside him, reaching for his shoulders.
"Mars? Can you hear me?"
He blinked at her.
"Mother?"
"Oh, thank Mithras."
Luxia pulled him into her arms. Her embrace was tight, almost desperate. Mars felt her hands move over his shoulders and back, checking him for injuries.
"Are you hurt? Do you feel sick? Tell me."
"I'm fine," he murmured.
She drew back to look at his face.
"You were unconscious."
"I know."
"Do you remember what happened?"
Mars looked past her.
At the relief.
The carved god stood above the bull, one hand holding the blade, the other raised in the ancient pose. Stone. Only stone.
But Mars could not make himself look away.
Luxia followed his gaze.
"Mars?"
He did not answer.
She gently turned his face toward her. "Look at me, darling."
He did.
Her eyes searched his, worried and frightened. Mars knew that expression. He had seen it when he was ill, when he had fallen from a broom, when something had happened that she could not immediately fix.
"I'm all right," he said again.
Luxia did not seem convinced.
Nearby, the other children were stirring. Someone was crying. One of the boys asked what had happened; another admitted that he did not know. Helios moved among the initiates, checking on them.
Amelia stood close to the altar. Her face was composed, but Mars noticed that she was watching him.
He looked back at the relief.
He had seen it move. He had seen Mithras step out of the stone. He had spoken to him.
And now the chamber was ordinary again.
Almost.
A shadow fell across him.
Edmund stood a short distance away, leaning on his walking stick. He looked first at Mars, then at the relief.
For a long moment, the old man said nothing.
His expression was difficult to read. It was not merely the concern of someone checking whether a child had recovered. There was something else in his eyes—some question, perhaps, or recognition.
Edmund's gaze returned to Mars.
Mars met it.
Neither spoke.
Then Edmund looked once more at Mithras.
Something passed across his face, too brief for Mars to understand.
Edmund turned toward Helios.
"I'll speak with you later," he said quietly.
Helios inclined his head.
Edmund made his way toward the entrance. His walking stick tapped against the stone, steady and measured. At the threshold, he paused and glanced back at the relief.
Then he left the Mithraeum.
Mars watched him go.
"Why was Great-Uncle Edmund looking at me like that?" he asked.
Luxia's hand tightened slightly on his shoulder.
"He was worried about you."
"Was he?"
"Yes."
She answered quickly. Mars could not tell whether she was certain.
Luxia helped him to his feet. His legs felt weak, and she kept an arm around him as they crossed the chamber.
At the doorway, Mars looked back one last time.
The relief remained still.
The star was nowhere to be seen.
The journey home passed in a blur.
Clement walked beside them, speaking little. Luxia kept asking whether Mars felt dizzy, whether he had a headache, whether the light bothered his eyes. Mars answered with a shake of his head or a quiet no.
He was tired.
Not the ordinary tiredness that followed a long day outdoors. It was as though something had shaken his mind, leaving him with thoughts he could not quite arrange.
At home, his parents settled him in his room.
Luxia brought him water and sat beside his bed while he drank. Clement stood near the window, watching him thoughtfully.
"Do you remember anything from the rite?" his father asked.
Mars hesitated.
He could tell them. He could describe the darkness, the star, the god who had spoken his old name. He could tell them that Mithras had asked about his dreams of flying machines, about the woman at the rave, about the prophecy.
But what would they say?
Would they believe him?
Would they tell Edmund?
And if Edmund already knew something, what would happen then?
"I remember the chamber," Mars said.
Clement nodded slowly. "And the relief?"
Mars looked down at the blanket.
"Yes."
His father waited.
Mars said nothing more.
Clement did not press him. He came to the bedside and placed a hand on his hair.
"You don't have to explain it tonight," he said. "You've had a shock. Rest first."
Luxia leaned forward and kissed Mars's forehead.
"We'll be here if you need us."
They left him with the curtains drawn and the door slightly open.
Mars lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He tried to reconstruct the vision in order. Mithras's face. The star. His old name. The questions. The prophecy.
And then the final words.
Learn from Clement. Live for more than yourself.
He turned onto his side.
Clement was his father. The god had told him to learn from him.
Why?
Was it simply advice? Had Mithras seen something in his father that Mars had failed to appreciate? Or had the name been part of the prophecy?
The questions followed him as he drifted into sleep.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through his curtains.
Mars woke slowly.
For a few seconds, he lay still, half expecting to find himself once more in the endless darkness. Then he saw his room: the familiar furniture, the books on his desk, the broom propped against the wall.
He was home.
He sat up.
The memory returned at once.
The star.
Mithras.
Kyosuke.
Mars pressed his palms against his eyes.
He had not dreamed it. He was certain of that.
But certainty did not make the experience easier to understand.
A knock came at the door.
"Are you awake?" Luxia called.
"Yes."
"Breakfast in ten minutes. And don't forget—the others are waiting to play."
"Quidditch?"
"Of course."
Her voice sounded normal.
That was the strangest thing.
No mention of the initiation. No questions about the vision. No solemn announcement that the family needed to discuss what had happened.
Just breakfast.
Mars dressed and went downstairs.
The house was already alive with the usual morning bustle. His cousins were arguing over who had taken the last piece of toast. Someone complained that a younger child had left muddy shoes in the hall. Clement was reading a letter beside his cup, and Luxia was reminding everyone not to fly too close to the orchard.
It was all ordinary.
So ordinary that Mars wondered whether the others had experienced anything at all.
He took his seat.
Cyrus glanced at him across the table.
For a moment, Mars thought his cousin might ask what he had seen.
Instead, Cyrus pushed the butter dish toward him.
"Want some?"
Mars took it.
"Thanks."
That was all.
No whispered question. No meaningful look. No mention of the rite.
Mars ate, listening to the conversation around him. The family discussed the weather, the estate, and the afternoon's plans. Someone brought up a dragon that had been particularly troublesome during feeding. Another relative complained about a Ministry letter.
The world had continued.
Apparently, it expected Mars to continue with it.
They gathered on the lawn after breakfast.
The cousins had already chosen teams. Brooms lay scattered across the grass, and a battered practice Quaffle rested near the hedge.
"Finally!" Tristan called when Mars came out. "We were about to start without you."
Mars took his broom.
"Who's captaining?"
"Me," Tristan said.
"You always captain."
"Because I'm Older"
The others laughed.
Mars found himself smiling.
It felt unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
They mounted their brooms and rose into the air. The morning wind brushed his face. Below, the estate spread out in familiar patches of green: the lawns, the orchard, the distant enclosures and the winding paths between them.
For a moment, he was simply a boy on a broom.
They began with a loose passing drill. The Quaffle moved from hand to hand as the players circled above the lawn. Mars caught it, turned sharply, and sent it toward Cyrus.
Cyrus snatched it out of the air.
"Too slow!"
Mars accelerated after him.
The game grew louder. Tristan shouted instructions no one followed. Julian attempted a daring dive and nearly collided with another player. Someone accused someone else of cheating. The Quaffle dropped, was recovered, and passed again.
Everything moved as it always had.
Mars tried to let himself be carried along by it.
He chased the Quaffle. He laughed when Tristan missed an easy catch. He argued over whether a goal had counted. He flew low over the grass and felt the broom respond beneath him.
Yet, every so often, his gaze drifted toward the old buildings beyond the lawn.
Toward the Mithraeum.
He could not see its entrance from here.
Still, he knew exactly where it was.
At one point, Cyrus pulled alongside him.
"You're quiet today," he said.
"Am I?"
"Usually you complain more when Tristan's captaining."
"I'm saving my breath."
"For what?"
Mars glanced at him.
Cyrus was watching him carefully.
The question sat between them for a moment.
Mars could have told him. Cyrus had already been initiated. Perhaps he would understand. Perhaps he had seen something similar.
But Cyrus did not ask again.
Mars looked away.
"Nothing," he said. "I'm just tired."
Cyrus nodded, accepting the answer—or pretending to.
Then Tristan yelled from across the lawn.
"Are you two planning to play, or should I award myself the Cup?"
Cyrus grinned and shot forward.
Mars followed.
They played until the sun climbed higher and the adults called them in. By then, Mars's arms ached, his hair was wind-tangled, and his thoughts had quieted—though they had not disappeared.
When he landed, Tristan was still arguing that his last goal should count double.
"It was a spectacular shot," Tristan insisted.
"It hit the post," Julian said.
"And went in."
"After bouncing off your own broom."
"That's strategy."
Mars laughed with the others.
For a little while, the laughter felt enough.
But as he carried his broom back toward the house, he looked once more toward the distant Mithraeum.
Nothing had changed.
The family went about its day. The children played Quidditch. The adults returned to their work. Nobody spoke of the vision.
It was that, afterward, the world had carried on as though it had not.