Chapter Forty-Three
The Cliff Between Us
from Have You Someone to Protect?
by ©Amer
Eight days before the full moon.
Two days since Caelum vanished into the forest.
Lhady said nothing about it.
Not to Elias. Not even to herself.
But the worry settled into her movements—the way her hand hesitated a second longer over a book spine, the faint twitch of her eyes when a shadow passed the shop windows. She was steady, composed—but stretched thinner than she let on.
Elias, of course, noticed.
He said nothing. But he trained her harder.
Each spare moment was given to control—containment. Her magic was growing restless again, stirring beneath her skin like a sea held behind glass. The full moon would only draw it closer to the edge.
Not because she was failing. On the contrary—Lhady was improving fast.
She could now seal a ward with a single breath, harness her energy into precise threads, hold back bursts of power that would've once splintered every shelf in the shop.
"You're still holding back," Elias told her one morning, just after her magic nearly split a practice seal in two.
"I'm trying not to hurt you," Lhady answered through her teeth.
Elias merely smiled. "That's not strength, Lhady. That's fear in costume."
But Elias saw what lay ahead. The full moon approached, and with it, something neither of them fully understood.
"You're stronger than last week," he said between rounds. "But I'm not testing you for now. I'm testing you for then."
"Then?"
"When it won't be me across from you."
Still, when dusk fell and the shop returned to its quiet rhythm, someone else arrived.
Silas.
He never asked to talk. He only borrowed a book.
At first, Lhady thought he was just finding excuses to linger. A part of her bristled at it. But then the next day, he returned—and not only had he finished the volume, he talked to her about it. In detail. Thoughtfully. Earnestly. Even Silas looked faintly surprised at himself.
"This wasn't supposed to be interesting," he muttered one afternoon, flipping through pages of another borrowed tome. "But it… was."
Lhady blinked. "You actually read it?"
"I didn't mean to," he admitted. "But I couldn't stop."
So she handed him the next one, and he returned again the next day. And again.
And it became a rhythm.
Silas never stayed long. Just long enough to ask one sharp question about the book's ending, or muse aloud about a scene, or—on quieter days—sit near the counter while she rearranged the shelves. But Lhady began to stop doubting the reason for his visits. He came to read. And to see her. But now… she didn't mind.
Of course, Elias interrupted—every time.
"You're loitering again, Silas," Elias would say without looking up.
Silas would return a smooth, "And you're always conveniently nearby, Elias."
To which Elias would only smile and offer Lhady a knowing glance.
That evening, after borrowing another book (this one slimmer than the rest—an excuse to return sooner), Silas left the shop just before twilight and made his way through the winding trail that led past Solara's edge. His boots crunched softly over the path that split just before the cliffs. The tree was still there—the one they used to climb as children. Its roots had grown deeper. Like time. Like memory.
He stopped beneath it. The sun had just dipped beneath the mountains, and the sky was painted in hues of fire and rust. A soft gust stirred the leaves—and then, a sound of feathers.
An eagle circled once, then descended, landing with practiced grace on his shoulder. Silas stilled, gaze sharpening.
A scroll tied to its leg.
Red wax seal. The emblem of his command.
He untied it.
Mission details. Updates. And orders.
They wanted movement. They wanted clarity. They wanted answers.
Silas folded the parchment with a sigh. His eyes drifted back toward Solara—toward the lights now beginning to glow inside the bookshop.
Then he felt it.
Not the wind. Not the eagle.
A weight. A presence. Watching.
"Not bad," came a voice from the shadows.
Silas didn't flinch. But his jaw set as Caelum stepped into view, sword unsheathed—but held loosely at his side.
"You tracked the eagle," Silas said, quiet.
"I tracked everything," Caelum replied. "And I'm tired of pretending I don't see it."
The two men stood across from each other—the tree casting long shadows between them.
Silas stepped forward, the wind rustling his coat. "Why aren't you coming back to her?"
Caelum didn't answer.
"I go to that bookshop. Every night. She waits. She won't admit it—but I see it." His voice dropped. "Why are you making her wait?"
Caelum's eyes lowered, just briefly. Something had changed in him.
The words from the cloaked figure still echoed: Your lineage betrayed her.
He hadn't told anyone. Especially not Lhady. And because of that—because of what he still didn't understand—he couldn't bring himself to return.
Not yet.
But soon.
Silas tilted his head. "What are you doing going back and forth from the trees to the trail? You don't look like you've been on a walk."
Caelum's voice was steel. "You think I haven't noticed the eagle? The seal? That's no bird of peace."
"I don't deny it," Silas replied, calm but cold. "Updates. Missions. Things I never asked for, but have to carry."
Caelum stepped forward. "Then tell me—are you reporting her?"
Silas's expression hardened. "You disappear for days. No message. No sign. Just gone. And you think you can question my reasons?"
"I have reasons. And trust," Caelum said flatly.
Silas scoffed. "You left her, Caelum. Alone. With a man she barely knows."
A pause.
The air turned cold.
"I never stopped watching," Caelum said at last. "Not from afar. Not from within."
"Does she know that?"
"She doesn't have to. I made a vow."
Silas's jaw clenched. For a moment, guilt flickered behind his eyes.
"So did I."
Only the eagle shifted on the branch above them, restless in the rising wind.
Silas looked away first, toward the path leading back to Solara.
"Don't think I've given up on her," he said, quiet but sharp. "If I have to fight to earn her back, I will. Especially from someone who keeps leaving her behind."
Caelum's gold eyes glinted like tempered flame. But he didn't strike.
He knew what was coming.
And deep down, he feared Silas wasn't wrong.
Silas turned to leave, but not before adding, softer now, with guilt laced beneath his pride:
"I'm playing both sides, Caelum. But don't make the mistake of thinking I don't care. Because I do. Too damn much."
And then he walked away, book still tucked under his arm, scroll unreadable in his coat.
Caelum stood alone. Sword sheathed. Thoughts louder than the wind.
He looked once toward the cliffs, then toward Solara—where her light still burned.
And finally, he moved.
Inside the bookshop, night settled gently over the upper rooms.
Lhady stood by her bed, the lantern dimmed low. Her training cloak was folded at the foot of the mattress, her pendant set beside the water basin. She was ready to sleep. She had said she wasn't waiting.
But she hadn't blown out the light yet.
Instead, she opened the old chest at the side of the room and gently lifted out a bundle wrapped in violet cloth. A journal—well-worn, edges softened from use. She unfolded it slowly. Inside lay a photo: faded and fragile with time, but still clear.
Thorne.
He stood at the edge of a glade, eyes steady even in the still image. Younger, taller, but with the same quiet strength. Beside him—Silas, no more than a boy then, lean and sharp-eyed, half-smiling with the wariness of someone who trusted little but followed deeply.
Two lives that had shaped hers. In ways she could never untangle.
Lhady sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the edge of the photograph. She stared for a long time, her thumb grazing over Thorne's face—not the lost man they honored in silence, but the one who had once taught her to read, to stand, to keep her chin high.
"I'm not waiting," she murmured to herself, though her voice lacked conviction.
She set the journal aside, photo still in hand, and lay down beneath the blanket.
The lantern flickered. Then stilled.
The front door of the bookshop creaked softly open.
No bell rang. No sound stirred.
But Elias, seated at the table with a closed book in his hand, didn't look up.
"You took your time," he said evenly.
Caelum stepped into the shop, shadowed but unmistakable. His coat smelled faintly of forest and ash. He paused just inside the doorway, like something sacred still held him back.
"I was never far," Caelum said.
Elias finally looked up, meeting his eyes. There was no surprise in him—only quiet understanding.
"I know," Elias said. "She didn't. But I did."
Caelum nodded, the gesture brief. "I needed… space."
"To carry guilt that isn't yours?" Elias rose, setting the book aside. "Or to test if she'd stop waiting?"
A flicker passed in Caelum's expression—too fast to name. He looked toward the stairs, toward where her light had finally gone out.
"I'm back now," he said.
"Then go home," Elias replied softly. "She never locked the door."
Caelum didn't answer. But his hand brushed the edge of the counter as he passed, like grounding himself. Like proof he was still allowed to return.
And then, without another word, he climbed the stairs.
Lhady had fallen asleep with the lantern still flickering low. The journal was forgotten on the edge of the bed, the photograph once nestled inside now slipped loose, fluttering quietly to the floor. It landed just beneath the frame—hidden from view. Out of reach, for now.
She slept without the blanket drawn. One hand curled beneath her cheek. Her breathing was soft.
Caelum stepped inside like a man returning from a battlefield—quiet, reverent.
He paused at her bedside.
She had waited. Even if she never said it, he could feel it. In the way her cloak was hung neatly, in the way the window had been left cracked open—just enough for someone to listen in.
He knelt beside her.
With careful hands, he lifted the blanket and drew it over her shoulders. Then, as though afraid to wake her from something sacred, he leaned close and gently brushed the hair from her face, fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long.
His voice was a breath, hushed and aching:
"I'm sorry I stayed away."
A pause.
"I wanted to come home sooner… but I needed to be sure I still could."
He closed his eyes, forehead almost resting against her arm.
Then, like a light embrace, he leaned in and rested his chin gently against her forehead.
His breath caught.
And in the stillness, a silent vow pressed through him like warmth through armor:
This time, I won't leave before she knows.
And as he rose, her hand shifted faintly in sleep—reaching for something.
He stood beside her until her breathing deepened again.
Outside, the stars over Solara flickered gently—like they, too, had been holding their breath.
And for one quiet night, the world stayed still around her.
The bookshop felt whole again—just for a breath.