A knock sounded at Cleo's door. It was quick and swift, clearly belonging to someone with many responsibilities and things to do.
"Come in," Cleo said, putting down her book.
The door opened, and an older man, long black hair streaked with white, walked in. He stared at Cleo for a moment, red eyes scanning her, seeming to pick her apart, revealing all of her secrets. He narrowed his cold, solemn eyes.
"Father? What's the matter?" Cleo asked.
Her father, Alastair Sinclair, was the baron. He resembled Cleo so much that Fiona sometimes mixed them up. Nobody knew why he always busied himself with the smallest things, opting to stay away from his home as much as possible. But inside, Cleo always knew. She reminded her father far too much of her mother. He could not bear to look at her without digging up his own past. He held himself with a distant, melancholic grace, nothing happy enough to wipe the forever present frown off his face.
"You've grown up," he responded. "And you've changed quite a bit since the last time I saw you."
Cleo nodded.
"I hope the academy has been treating you well."
She nodded again.
Alastair pulled out a thin box about two feet long. It was decorated with intricate designs of various creatures, painted in red. "This is for you. I figured it was time for you to have it."
Cleo took the box. She opened it, showing the beautiful flute that was placed within. It was made of a black marble with red swirls. Its keys were intricately placed, glinting silver in the light. The flute exuded a feeling of serenity, as well as power. Like the calm before the storm. This once belonged to the one who had subdued the world with his music.
"I'm not assuming that you can play it," Cleo's father said, taking the instrument out of its box. "But I thought that you should try it out."
Cleo took the flute in her hands. Placing her fingers along the keys, she was reminded of her own instrument back in her home in the real world. She brought the flute up to her lips. Gently, she blew into it, playing the first thing that came to mind. A beautiful sound resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and spinning through the air. Cleo's magic flared, her body glowing with a red light, as strings of the thinnest scarlet spiraled around her and her father.
Alastair watched, in awe, as his daughter's music flowed gracefully, leading her magic throughout the room. He reached out a hand to touch one of the red strings, forming Cleo's magic into a small lyre. He strummed it, adding his own cinnabar red to the mix of music flowing around the room. There they sat, playing their music, for a long time, as the combined beauty of their magic swirled through the estate.
When the song finally came to a stop, a sinister, black mist lingered. Cleo, curious, tried to touch it. Alastair slapped her hand away.
"What is it?" she asked her father.
"It's the residue of my magic," he replied, clutching his chest as a sharp pain overtook his body. He coughed into a handkerchief. When he brought it away from his face, there was dark red blood splattered all over it.
Cleo gasped. She had completely forgotten about how far she had already gone into the book. The baron was going to die, and Reinland would launch an attack on the empire, since Alastair and his wife had been the sole reason the kingdom had retreated in the first place. Once they were both gone, the empire would be weaker than ever.
"I'm...fine," Alastair finally managed to cough out.
The Sinclairs were blessed with power. Power beyond the imagination of human beings. They could live forever if they wanted to. But even though they possessed magic rivaling the gods, they were cursed to meet early deaths. And the more they used their power, the more it would gnaw away at their life force. Nobody had ever been able to escape the terrible fate of the Sinclairs, each passing away for a different reason. Alastair had held out the longest before dying to his incurable heart disease.
"I'm just glad that I could spend my last moments with you, Cleo."
He wrapped her up in a tight hug. Cleo saw a tear drip down his cheek and onto the floor. This feeling...it felt familiar. The moment when you realize that they would be gone forever. The moment when you remember that you never said goodbye.
"Don't leave me," Cleo sobbed into her father's shoulder. "I don't want to be alone."
"I'm sorry, Cleo," Alastair said, patting her on the back. "I'm sorry."
***
It was on the battlefield when they first met. The Reinland forces were slowly overtaking the empire's soldiers. Everyone was panicking. But even amidst all the chaos and despair, she did not give up hope. Alastair remembered watching her cut through the advancing soldiers easily. He recalled how she had rallied the remnants of the empire's soldiers for one last stand. It was then he had brought his flute up to his lips, no longer hopeless.
She had looked at him then. The gaze of a fighter ready to die for any battle she fought. And it was that same look she had given him years later when she sacrificed herself for him.
"Keep living. For me, for our daughter," she had said.
He had promised.
"I'm sorry, Bellatrix."