Hagrid blurted out, "Well, I've never heard you lot mention any 'Rhiannon' before!"
Firenze signaled to him. The other centaurs all looked grim, staring at Hagrid like they were weighing a lump of fatty pork—like if he said one more wrong word, they'd slash him and measure him by the pound. It was obvious they treated the name Rhiannon with extreme seriousness, and outsiders weren't allowed to appraise it with casual remarks.
Skyl explained, "Hagrid, you noticed there aren't any female centaurs here."
"Yeah, so what?"
"I don't believe centaurs grow out of the soil like potatoes. They've hidden their females and foals." As Skyl said this, the centaurs around them showed clear unease, their posture tightening.
Firenze, walking at the very front, said, "You'd all be better off not remembering the route from here on. I know you will remember, but you must forget."
Bane let out an unreadable snort through his nostrils.
Dumbledore and Skyl lowered their voices and spoke quietly.
"Professor—when did these centaurs settle in the Forbidden Forest?"
"You've stumped me. I may have lived for over a hundred years, but I'm sure their history in the forest is longer than mine. They're a mysterious people; the wizarding world knows very little about them."
A centaur named Ronan overheard and said proudly, "Our history upon this land predates the Saxons." The Saxons entered the British Isles in the fifth century.
Skyl shrugged. "So your history still isn't as long as the Ollivander family's wandmaking history."
Dumbledore murmured, "Does the name Rhiannon ring any bells for you?"
"Yes," Skyl said. "The white mare goddess—also a moon goddess. In mythological studies, she may share an origin with Epona from Roman Gaul. Is she the founder of the centaur people?"
Guided by Firenze—who kept that feathered arrow held high the whole time—they skirted the lake, crossed a babbling stream, and circled to the foot of the cliff on the far shore. The rock face here was draped in vines, hiding a smooth wall beneath. The centaur boy who had fired the arrow stood to the side, grinning as he watched the three outsiders. They were especially interested in the phoenix on Skyl's shoulder.
"Looks like we're getting close to the centaurs' true dwelling."
Firenze parted the soft, curtain-like vines before the stone. Behind them was a slab of rock painted with a summer star map of the Northern Hemisphere. Where the North Star should have been, there was instead a small arrow-hole. Firenze gently slid the arrowhead into it—perfectly fitted, without a hair's breadth of slack.
All around them, the centaurs let out a low, resonant sound like throat-singing. One by one, the stars on the cliff face lit up. Then the rock rippled like pond water, and a circular passageway, tall enough for two people, spread outward from the arrow-hole.
The passage seemed impossibly deep and long, with only a grain-of-rice speck of light at the far end.
"This is…" Dumbledore's eyes widened in wonder. "A faerie mound?"
Skyl nodded, agreeing with him.
A faerie mound was, in Celtic myth, the dwelling of the gods—a realm of joy, like a kind of heaven. It was Skyl's first time seeing such a place. Yet he didn't sense any trace of divinity lingering here; most likely, it led only to a hidden magical sanctuary.
Entering the passage felt like stepping into a stretch of damp cloud-mist. Firenze led. Bane followed. Then Dumbledore, Skyl, and Hagrid, with other centaur warriors behind them. The light at the end of the dark corridor swelled from a grain into something larger—like a distant star exploding in deep space. Soon they didn't even need to walk toward it; the brightness surged straight at them. The heavy darkness and the sharp-edged rocks around them dissolved like drifting smoke.
Whoosh—
As the light faded, Hagrid let out a long breath. Skyl felt a hot gust from behind, lifting his cloak. The half-giant could finally straighten his back.
Before the guests stretched a vast grassland, the horizon sinking into a pale, misty outline. The sky of this sanctuary differed slightly from the outside world: whether day or night, the stars here were always bright. Correspondingly, the sky never turned a clear blue—it stayed close to a deep purple. The sun still traveled its course, but its star-drowning brilliance was gathered into a basin-sized circle, forming a white-crystal, immaculate "halo" of sunlight.
Hagrid mumbled praise for the scenery. Even as a friend of the centaurs, he had never been here.
Beneath that gorgeous starlit vault, on grass brushed by a gentle wind, centaur foals ran about—unsteady and stumbling, clustering and roughhousing together. Female centaurs gathered by a lake that reflected the stars, doing simple handiwork. The moment Firenze and the others returned, young and beautiful girls came to greet them. They called their beloveds by name, trotting alongside them; affectionate hooves playfully tangled as they walked.
Of the three human guests, every last one was single. Dumbledore had at least lived through a knot of love and hate once upon a time. The other two were steel-souled, pure-blood virgins. Skyl quietly turned his head away. He saw nostalgia on Dumbledore's face, and Hagrid…
Why did Hagrid look so happy? Don't tell him he was treating centaurs like breeding stock.
Firenze was single too, and the melancholy in him only deepened into something more bitter. Meanwhile, Bane—who hadn't gotten along with Firenze all the way here—was the one with surprisingly good luck in love.
"Come with me," Firenze said, leading them deeper into the sanctuary.
They walked at an unhurried pace through the centaur settlement. After climbing a low hill, Firenze pointed to the chieftain's tent—a particularly splendid one. The fabric was white as goose down, with beaded curtains around the rim strung from gold, emeralds, and amber. From the pointed top hung a decorative pole bearing a silver-cast moon. He said, "Go on. Rhiannon already knows you've come."
He still seemed uneasy about Hagrid. "Once you're inside, keep your eyes on the ground. If you show disrespect, you'll anger Rhiannon."
"Oh, don't you worry," Hagrid said, and strode forward to yank the curtain aside.
Then he gave a strangled shout.
"Ahh—!!!"
Skyl and the others crowded into the tent and saw Hagrid clutching his chest like he couldn't breathe. The interior was empty—except for a long rug woven from herbs. Seated upon it was a golden mare, her coat like molten gold, her black eyes calmer than the night sky.
Hagrid's defenses collapsed under the beauty of that godlike mare. Trembling, he wanted to step closer and stroke her. It was obvious he was struggling to hold himself back.
"Hagrid," Skyl warned him, "don't forget what you promised."
The mare rose, then dipped her head and stamped lightly in greeting—first to Skyl, then to Dumbledore. She ignored Hagrid entirely. The half-giant wore a dazed, blissful look, and didn't care in the slightest.
"Greetings, humans—and beautiful phoenix. I am Rhiannon." The mare didn't move her mouth, yet a clear feminine voice resonated from within her body.
Hagrid grabbed Skyl's sleeve in excitement. "Skyl, did you hear that? She can talk!"
"I'm not deaf," Skyl replied coolly.
He and Dumbledore returned the hand-to-chest salute and introduced themselves, adding, "And this is Hagrid. He means no harm—he simply likes dealing with animals."
"The stars foretold your arrival. Yet you brought disaster to the world." Rhiannon's gaze was steady. "Now the heavens have shifted again. I want to know what made you change your mind."
"I made a prophecy," Skyl said, sweeping his eyes around. The tent had no seats prepared for guests, so he planned to be brief. "In two years, something enormous will happen. I've seen it. It involves the tampering of time and history."
Dumbledore's eyes widened. He slowly rubbed his long beard, sinking into thought.
"Altering history is a very interesting process," Skyl went on. "It's closer to the root than ordinary prophecy. It causes differences in prophecies of the past and prophecies of the future alike. This sanctuary must be cut off from the outside, which is why you see two different skies. But the rain from the Root keeps falling. If you can't adapt to the new history… you may disappear."
Dumbledore said softly, "Skyl… you mean the history outside has already changed?"
"Yes." Skyl didn't elaborate. "Only in a trivial way—compared to what will happen in two years."
Rhiannon's body swayed gently. Then, before the astonished eyes of three elderly virgins, the mare transformed into a blonde woman—like she wore a golden, airtight cloak, except it was only her impossibly long hair. "If you can prevent the disaster," she asked, "why wouldn't you?"
"Changing history doesn't create tragedy in the usual sense," Skyl said. "Like Abraham's lamb—born to be sacrificed to God. If it had never been born, then Abraham's son would have died instead. But to that infant lamb, he would never know he was a scapegoat. And for the altered history, that becomes the 'correct' truth."
"But I know," Rhiannon said, sorrow filling her face. "And you know as well. The gods who once existed already have their answer. If you allow history to be tampered with, you will be forgotten."
Skyl was genuinely startled. "How many times has history been altered?"
"This land has been sorrowful seven times."
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