The days following their secret retreat into the hidden library passed in a kind of golden haze.
Something had shifted between them—not a grand event, not a declaration or kiss, but a soft deepening. A comfort that needed no words. Elowen no longer hesitated to brush Caelum's hand when they walked side by side. She no longer turned away when he met her gaze and held it.
It was subtle. Sweet. The kind of closeness that grows slowly and takes root like ivy—quiet, stubborn, and unshakable.
The servants began to notice.
Or rather, they tried not to notice.
Caelum caught glimpses of their averted eyes and hasty bows when he and Elowen passed in the halls, heads close together, laughing about something mundane. Whispers trailed behind them like smoke.
"Is it true? He makes her smile now?"
"I heard the apple tree bloomed…"
"She's… different when he's near."
It wasn't fear in their voices. Not anymore. It was wonder.
Caelum would have found it amusing—except he knew how fragile this balance was. The novel's version of Elowen was feared because no one chose to understand her. But here, now, she was blooming, and even the world around her seemed to breathe differently when she did.
It made him wary of time.
Of how little he had before the story began to twist toward its darker path.
One quiet afternoon, the two of them found themselves in the estate's embroidery room—not because they were required to be there, but because Elowen had dragged him in, declaring he "had hands too pretty to waste on swordsmanship alone."
It was dusty and quiet. Sunlight filtered through lace-draped windows, illuminating threads of every color arranged in neat glass jars. A half-finished tapestry lay forgotten in the corner.
Caelum held a needle like it was a dangerous artifact. "You're kidding."
"You promised to learn something new every week," Elowen said, sitting cross-legged on a cushioned stool. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing pale wrists dusted with golden freckles. "This counts."
"This is sabotage."
"This is tradition." She handed him a square of cloth. "Embroidery was considered a noble skill. It teaches patience and precision."
"It teaches me to stab myself repeatedly."
She grinned and leaned forward to guide his hand. Her fingers were cool, but soft. "Like this. Thread, loop, pull. Gently."
Caelum, against all odds, succeeded in making a lopsided flower. He stared at it like it might explode.
"You should sign it," Elowen said.
"With what? Blood?"
"With this," she replied, dipping her finger into a pot of gold thread ink and tapping his nose. "There. Artist's mark."
He blinked. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Of course I am. You look ridiculous."
"You find me charming."
"Not even slightly."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you dragged me to an abandoned library, shared your childhood secrets, and are now helping me sew crooked flowers?"
Elowen opened her mouth—and froze.
For a second, something raw passed over her features. Then she looked away and said, too quietly, "You weren't supposed to be here."
Caelum felt the air shift. The same strange tension from the garden returned—the sense of being watched by something vast and invisible.
He leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, fingers curling around the cloth in her lap, "you weren't supposed to change anything."
Caelum's heartbeat stuttered.
"You… remember?" he asked carefully.
Elowen shook her head. "No. But sometimes, when you speak or act differently than you're supposed to, it feels like I'm waking from a dream. Like everything else in the world is turning to look."
Caelum felt a chill crawl down his spine.
The notebook.
The subtle shifts.
The lines appearing on their own.
The divergence.
"Elowen," he said softly, "what do you remember before we met?"
She was quiet for a long time.
"Not much," she admitted. "Loneliness. And power. My father called me cursed. My mother called me special. The servants called me… nothing at all. I think I was always waiting. For something to break me. Or someone to stop me."
Her voice trembled. "And then you came."
Caelum didn't know what to say. So he reached across the table, slowly, and placed his hand over hers. Her skin was cold—but her fingers curled instinctively into his.
They stayed like that.
Breathing.
Later that night, Caelum sat alone in his room, the embroidered cloth folded neatly on his desk beside the notebook. The ink on the latest page had dried into soft gray, and at first glance, it looked unchanged.
But when he brushed his fingers over the corner, a shimmer passed across the page, and new words bled through like dew soaking into parchment:
Emotional Synchronization: 27%Fate Trajectory Deviation: Widening.Warning: Narrative Elasticity Reaching Critical Tension.
Caelum frowned.
What did that mean? That the world was starting to fight back? Was there a breaking point, a moment when his presence would begin to snap the threads holding the story together?
He closed the book and exhaled slowly.
He needed more time.
More answers.
And most of all… he needed to keep her safe.
The next day, they returned to the garden—but something was different.
Elowen seemed distant. Quieter than usual.
They sat together beneath the now-blooming apple tree, the soft petals falling around them like confetti, but her hands were fidgety, her gaze unfocused.
"I had a dream," she said suddenly.
Caelum turned to her. "What kind of dream?"
"I was in the library," she said. "The one underground. But it wasn't books that filled the shelves. It was mirrors. And they all showed different… versions of me. Some smiling. Some angry. Some with eyes that weren't mine."
She shivered.
"Then one of them spoke. She asked me: 'Do you want to be written… or be the writer?'"
Caelum's breath caught.
The same words.
The exact same ones from his dream.
He reached into his coat slowly, feeling the outline of the notebook beneath the fabric.
"Did you answer?" he asked.
Elowen turned to him. "No. I woke up before I could."
There was a long pause.
Then Caelum reached for her hand again, lacing their fingers together.
"Next time," he said gently, "say writer."
Elowen smiled faintly. "And you?"
He looked at her like she was the only truth in the world. "I'll write it with you."