The Grand Hall blazed with an amber glow. Hundreds of small wooden lanterns, no larger than milk cartons with Celtic knots and runes carved into them, hovered in the air above the tables like earthbound stars. Bigger Jack-o'-lanterns carved from massive turnips lined the walls, their faces twisted into grotesque grimaces that flickered in the dancing light. Garlands of rowan berries, oak leaves, and hawthorn branches adorned the great oak beams overhead, their red-gold colors reflecting the season's turning.

  The entire Academy hummed with anticipation, a current of energy vibrating through stone and wood alike, and even the air felt different, heavier, charged with potential, as if reality itself held its breath for Samhain Eve, the night the veil between worlds grew thinnest.

  Finn sat at a table with Sophie and Kai, unconsciously drumming his fingers on the table, picking at his food while his mind raced with questions that had only multiplied since his first spirit summoning in the Eastern Grove. The bog sprite's vision, the acorn sigil, Bran's groundless insinuations - all of it swirled through his head, pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

  "You're going to wear a hole in the table if you keep doing this," Sophie muttered, nudging his hand.

  "Sorry," Finn mumbled, forcing himself to still. "Just thinking."

  "About the sprite?" Kai asked, eyeballing one of the lanterns that was hovering right above him. "Or Bran?"

  "Both. Everything." Finn sighed. "It feels like everyone knows things about me that I don't. Even Bran. I mean, what the hell was he talking about? I've been feeling bad asking too many questions, you know, as the new guy who doesn't know shite. But I think it's time that I do."

  "That's the spirit," Sophie grinned. "So what's the plan? Library research? Sneaking into Oisin's office? Midnight expedition for a reunion with the mud gnome?"

  "Let's start with something less likely to get us expelled," Kai suggested dryly. "The Samhain festivities might offer opportunities to ask some of the questions you have. The Masters are more relaxed during celebrations, more likely to share information."

  Finn nodded, his gaze drifting toward the High Table where the Academy's teachers sat. Oisin occupied the central chair, deep in conversation with Morrigan beside him, his antler crown gleaming in the lantern light. Myrddin was notably absent, probably preparing the Archives for Samhain's magical flux, and áine sat at the table's far end while Maelor, Professor Hutchins, and a few other teachers were just arriving.

  "What exactly happens on Samhain here?" Finn asked, turning back to his friends. "Is it like Halloween? Costumes and sweets and drunk people?"

  "Halloween can't hold a candle to Samhain," Kai explained, slipping into what Sophie called his 'professor mode'." Here at the Grove, we honor the ancient Celtic traditions. The night begins with the Kindling of the Need-fire, a ritual flame lit without modern means or the help of elementals, using only friction of the sacred woods. It symbolizes unity and purification, and from it, all other fires in the Academy are lit."

  "Then comes the Procession of Ancestors," he continued. "Where we carry lanterns through the forest paths, honoring those who've passed beyond the veil. It is said that the dead walk with us, just out of sight."

  "That's... comforting," Finn murmured.

  "It's meant to be," Kai assured him. "Samhain is about acknowledging the cycle of death and rebirth. My father told me that dangerous entities might cross over, but so might wisdom and blessing from ancestors."

  "The best part comes after midnight," Sophie added, her eyes brightening. "The Feast of Spirits. We leave food and drink at the edge of the forest for wandering souls, friendly spirits, and elementals. And there's music and dancing around the bonfires. It's brilliant!"

  "And divination," Kai noted. "The thinned veil makes practices like scrying pools, rowan pendulums, or hazel mirrors far more effective on Samhain eve." He shrugged. "At least according to some Guide to foretelling, I read a while ago."

  A bell boomed through the Academy's depths, and students around the hall turned towards the dais where the teachers sat, their conversations quieting as Oisin rose from his seat at the High Table. "Weavers of the Grove," the High Druid announced, spreading his arms wide, as if he wanted to embrace the entire hall. "Samhain descends upon us. The sun's journey comes to its rest, and with its setting, we begin our most sacred observance. First-years will join Warden Morrigan at the Eastern Circle for instruction in the Kindling ritual. Second-years will accompany Mistress áine to prepare the Ancestor Lanterns. Third-years will report to Master Maelor for the Boundary Strengthening ceremony."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall. "Remember that tonight, while a celebration, carries real danger. The Academy's protective wards will be at their weakest. Stay within the designated areas. Follow the instructions of your teachers without question." He paused, his voice dropping. "And above all, remember: what crosses over must eventually return. Make no bargains with entities from beyond, no matter how benign they may appear."

  With those ominous words, he stepped down from the dais, signaling the meal's end. Students rose, sorting themselves by year, an undercurrent of excitement and nervous anticipation rippling through the crowd.

  As they joined the other first-years gathering around Morrigan, Finn spotted Bran across the hall, surrounded by his usual worshippers, Pia, Ronan, and a trollish-looking lad called Conal. Bran caught Finn's eye and held it for a moment, his expression unreadable, before deliberately turning away. He said something that made his companions laugh, then glanced back at Finn.

  "He's just trying to get under your skin," Sophie said, rolling her eyes. "Ignore him."

  "What's his story, anyway?" Finn asked, genuinely curious. "Why is he so... Bran?"

  "The Blackthorns are one of the oldest Weaver families in Britain. They've held seats on the Druid Council for I don't know how many generations. Bran's father, Ailean Blackthorn, is the current High Chancellor." Sophie replied, the distaste in her voice hard to miss.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Bran's been raised to believe the Grove exists specifically for families like his. Old blood, ancient lineages, unbroken Weaver heritage."

  "First-generation Weavers or Weavers from ordinary families," She pointed her thumbs back at Kai and herself, "we're barely tolerated in his worldview."

  "What about orphans with unknown parentage?" Finn asked rhetorically.

  "Depends on your power," Kai replied, to his surprise. "The Blackthorns respect power above all, even above bloodlines. That's probably why you irritate Bran so much. Your abilities challenge his neat hierarchy."

  "There's more to it," Sophie said, glancing toward Bran. "His older brother, Lachlan, was the family prodigy. Won every competition, highest marks in his year, perfect control of fire elementals... until he vanished on Samhain three years ago."

  "Vanished? How?" For a moment, Finn pictured an older version of Bran being abducted by an army of bog sprites.

  "During the Procession of Ancestors," Kai explained. "He stepped off the path, following something only he could see. By the time anyone noticed, he was gone. The Masters searched for days, but he was never found."

  "First-year weavers! Gather close," Morrigan's sharp call to order interrupted their conversation. The Warden stood by the hall's eastern entrance in robes adorned with runes and Celtic knots stitched in golden thread, instead of her usual robes. "As the sun sets today, the old year will die with it. Please follow me. We have a fire to kindle."

  The Eastern Circle lay a short walk from the Academy's main buildings, a ring of standing stones much smaller than the Witch's Henge from Duncliffe or the henge he had arrived at when Morrigan brought him to the Grove. The nine monoliths, hewn from dark, smooth granite, surrounded a central altar of polished stone, each carved with spiraling ogham that glowed faintly in the deepening twilight. Beyond it, the forest loomed, dark and forbidding in the deepening Samhain dusk. Second and third-year students buzzed around the sacred site and its surrounding grounds and paths, setting up lanterns, weaving boundary markers, and preparing wood piles for the Samhain fires. At the circle's center, in front of the stone altar, lay a collection of tools: a bow drill made of oak, a fireboard of pine, tinder of dried moss and fungus, and nine candles in holders of silver, bronze, and iron.

  "The Need-fire is the heart of Samhain," Morrigan explained, as they gathered around the altar. "Kindled without flame, born from friction and will, it represents the spark of life persisting even as the world darkens toward winter. From this single ember, all the Samhain fires will ignite, and carry protection through the dangerous night."

  She contemplated the gathered students for a long moment, then pointed at Bran and Elva. "You will operate the bow drill," Morrigan instructed. "The rest of you will form a circle around them and lend your Aether to the kindling."

  Finn found himself positioned between Sophie and a nervous-looking boy named Darragh. They joined hands, completing the circle of first-years around Bran and Elva at the altar.

  For what felt like forever, they just stood there in complete silence, the tension among them becoming palpable. At last, Morrigan raised her staff.

  "Open yourselves to the Aether's flow," she commanded. "Feel it rise from the earth beneath you and the sky above you. Feel it flow into your body, through your body. Let it build and hold it." She looked around the circle, her gaze wandering from their faces to their interlocked hands. "Good! Now let the Aether flow into your joined hands. Direction is paramount: clockwise flow, always clockwise at Samhain, to hold back the dark."

  Finn closed his eyes, reaching for the now-familiar warmth in his chest. It responded readily, rising easily at his call, flowing down his arms into his hands. Where his fingers linked with Sophie's and Darragh's, he could feel their Aether mingling with his. In the circle's center, Bran and Elva had begun working the bow drill. Bran drew the bow back and forth in smooth, practiced motions, causing the spindle to rotate rapidly against the fireboard. Elva knelt opposite him, holding the fireboard steady, her free hand cupped near the point of friction to catch any ember before a breeze could carry it away. Minutes passed, the scraping and scratching of the bow drill accompanied only by the students' steady breathing and the distant calls of night birds from the forest. Despite the crisp autumn evening, sweat beaded on Bran's forehead as he focused on maintaining the drill's rhythm, his face a pale mask of rigid determination.

  Finn felt the cool evening air thicken with the combined Aether of his fellow students. The warmth in his chest expanded, radiating outward with unexpected strength, his threads now flowing freely, almost forcefully, toward the center where wood met wood in ancient friction.

  Bran glanced up, noticing the sudden surge of power. His eyes met Finn's, narrowing with a mixture of surprise and resentment. For a moment, his rhythm faltered.

  "Steady, Blackthorn," Morrigan's voice cut through the tension.

  "The fire must come from unity."

  Bran's jaw tightened, but he returned his focus to the drill, continuing the steady back and forth, until his motions found back to their previous rhythm. After what seemed like an eternity, a small plume of smoke rose from the fireboard. Elva leaned closer, exhaling gently, coaxing the nascent ember with bark dust. The smoke thickened, and then, a flicker. A tiny, glowing point of orange-red that quickly grew as Elva transferred it to the waiting tinder nest.

  "The Need-fire awakens," Morrigan intoned, her voice taking on a ritual cadence. "From darkness, light. From death, life. From ending, beginning."

  The tinder caught, flames licking upward, small at first, then growing faster and faster. But instead of orange-gold, these flames burned with an unusual blue-silver edge that made Finn's heart skip a beat. The colors were the same as his Aether threads. The same that stirred in the cauldron from his dreams.