The afternoon sun dipped low, bathing the Thorne estate in molten gold. The garden, once whispering and secretive, now seemed to breathe slower in their presence, its magic no longer wary but quietly curious.
Caelum and Elowen walked side by side beneath the arching branches of willow trees, their fingers nearly brushing but never quite touching. Each glance between them carried something unspoken — something warm, feather-light, and full of hope. And something Elowen, despite her usual guardedness, didn't seem to shy away from anymore.
Caelum caught her watching him. She looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the ribbon tied loosely around her wrist.
"You'll wear that ribbon out if you keep fidgeting with it," Caelum said with a lopsided grin.
Her lips tugged upward, not quite a full smile — but it lit her entire face. "Then maybe you should give me another one."
He blinked. "Are you—did you just ask me for a gift?"
"I'm merely ensuring your debt to me continues to grow," she said loftily, the faintest hint of a blush coloring her pale cheeks. "Besides, you're the one who told me to stop fidgeting."
"I didn't realize I'd be punished for good advice."
They stopped at the fountain's edge, where droplets danced like miniature stars. Elowen leaned forward, trailing her finger across the water's surface. To Caelum's quiet astonishment, the ripples shimmered with a soft lavender hue as they spread.
"Elowen… your magic," he said gently.
She pulled back, surprised — not at the glow, but at having let her guard down. "It's not supposed to do that," she murmured. "It never reacts like that. Not unless—"
"Unless what?"
She hesitated. "Unless I feel something deeply."
Caelum's breath caught. His chest tightened with the weight of all the things he wasn't sure he was allowed to say yet. Instead, he sat beside her on the stone ledge, letting the silence stretch comfortably.
She glanced at him sideways. "You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
"That depends," she said softly. "On whether you plan to stay."
He turned to her, his voice steady. "I do."
The sun had nearly set by the time they wandered back toward the manor. The notebook in Caelum's inner pocket thudded lightly against his chest with each step. It had been silent all day — no cryptic lines, no glowing text, nothing but blank, waiting pages.
Still, he couldn't shake the sense that something—or someone—was watching.
That night, after dinner, Elowen surprised him.
"I have something to show you," she said.
They crept through the corridors like mischief-bound children. She led him down a narrow hall that twisted behind the east wing of the estate, into a part of the house Caelum hadn't seen yet. Dust swirled in the beam of her flickering candle.
"This way," she whispered.
A door loomed ahead, carved from dark oak and covered in ivy-shaped patterns. With a twist of her fingers, the lock clicked open—not with a key, but with a pulse of magic.
Inside was an old library — no longer maintained, but still lined with books and overstuffed chairs, vines creeping through the cracked stone walls.
Caelum let out a low whistle. "I thought the main library was impressive. This is…"
"Forgotten," Elowen said, smiling faintly. "My father told me no one comes here anymore. But I used to sneak in as a child."
They stepped inside. Dust motes glowed in the candlelight, drifting lazily through the quiet space. She guided him to a table where a single book lay open — its spine cracked and pages yellowed with age.
"I found this last year," she said. "It's a fairytale. One I'd never heard before. About a boy made of stars and a girl made of stormlight."
Caelum's eyebrows raised. "Sounds poetic."
"I liked the ending," she whispered. "They weren't afraid of each other. Everyone else tried to pull them apart, but they stayed."
She met his gaze again, more vulnerable this time.
"They found peace in each other," she said. "I always wondered if stories like that could be real."
The candle flickered. Caelum reached for the book, brushing her fingers as he turned the page. Neither of them moved away.
"I think stories like that start somewhere," he said quietly. "Maybe here."
Elowen stared at him. Something in her eyes wavered — like a tide drawn by moonlight. And then, carefully, she rested her head on his shoulder.
The moment held. Long enough for Caelum to feel the beat of her heart through the soft fabric of her sleeve. Long enough for the page of the notebook in his pocket to turn — though neither of them saw it.
A single line had appeared in delicate gold script:
"When hearts begin to speak, the world dares not interrupt."