The wind had grown gentler over the last few days, as if nature itself was responding to the hush that fell whenever Elowen and Caelum disappeared from the corridors of House Thorne. Even the ever-watching eyes of servants and tutors had begun to grow used to their quiet absences—though not all had stopped noticing.
Tonight, the two of them slipped away again.
Not to the garden this time, but to a forgotten place Caelum had stumbled upon during a quiet walk: a ruined greenhouse behind the eastern wing, glass panels fractured like webs and ivy reclaiming the stone walls. Moonlight spilled through the broken glass, painting their silhouettes in fragments of silver.
"Is this... safe?" Elowen asked, her voice hushed in the quiet warmth of their secret place.
"With you here?" Caelum grinned, nudging her shoulder. "I feel safer than anywhere else."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. "You say that now. Wait till the glass above us falls."
They sat on a long-abandoned stone bench covered in moss. Around them, long-dead vines rustled softly, animated by the wind—or something else. It had become hard to tell these days. Especially around her.
After a moment, Elowen folded her hands on her lap and spoke so softly he almost missed it.
"When I was younger," she began, "they tried to seal my magic."
Caelum turned to look at her, startled. "What?"
She didn't meet his gaze. "They were afraid. My parents. The servants. Even some tutors. My powers... reacted to emotion back then. Sometimes I'd laugh, and flames would burst from the candles. Once, I cried so hard it rained inside the manor."
He leaned in closer, the air between them still.
"So they summoned a mage. A Sealer. He was old and wore a red cloak I still see in nightmares." She smiled bitterly. "He looked at me like I wasn't a child. Just... a problem to fix."
"What happened?"
She shrugged. "He failed. My powers lashed out when he tried to bind them. They called it a miracle that no one died."
Caelum reached over without thinking and took her hand. "They were wrong to fear you."
Her eyes widened a little. His fingers were warm against hers, steady.
"You're not a monster," he said. "You're not a curse, Elowen. You're a wonder no one knew how to love properly."
The silence that followed was thick with something fragile. Her eyes shimmered—not with magic, but with something far more dangerous: vulnerability.
She didn't speak. Instead, she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
For several minutes, they sat like that, saying nothing, the sound of crickets and the occasional tap of loose glass above filling the silence. The vines overhead glowed faintly—soft pulses like fireflies syncing to her heartbeat.
Later, under the stars on the manor's roof, Caelum reached into his coat pocket and handed her something small: a velvet pouch tied with a ribbon.
"What's this?" she asked, eyebrows arched.
"Open it."
Inside was a delicate pendant, an old teardrop-shaped locket. When she pressed the clasp, it opened to reveal a pressed flower—white, star-shaped.
"Elowen's Star," he said. "Found it in the garden the day we first explored it. Figured it deserved to be remembered."
She blinked several times. "You made this?"
"I tried," he said sheepishly. "It's not perfect—"
"I love it."
He looked at her. "Really?"
"Yes," she said, voice nearly a whisper. "It's... It's the first thing anyone's ever given me that felt like it was just for me."
The locket pulsed faintly. Her magic, it seemed, agreed.
Then: her fingers laced with his.
Just like that.
No fanfare. No hesitation. Just warmth and the crickets and the wide, endless stars.
Back inside the manor, a different kind of warmth simmered.
Behind one of the inner staircases, partially hidden by shadow, a servant lingered. Not just any servant—Ansel, a steward long loyal to House Thorne. He had watched Caelum quietly for weeks, seen the way Elowen's eyes lit differently around him. How the girl whose magic once cracked walls now let it flicker gently in his presence.
When Caelum passed by alone the next morning, Ansel approached him.
"You care for her," he said simply.
Caelum blinked. "Pardon?"
Ansel's eyes were sharp. Not hostile. Just... weary. "You care for her. It's written all over your face."
Caelum didn't deny it.
"Then let me give you a word of warning," Ansel said, voice low. "This world... it doesn't let her keep anything soft. So if you truly care for her, be careful. Be strong. Or the world will take you away from her too."
Caelum swallowed hard. The words stayed with him long after Ansel had gone.
That night, Caelum passed a hallway mirror on the way back to his room. For the briefest second, the reflection twisted—not his own face, but a version of him bruised and bleeding, reaching for a girl crying in a shattered garden.
Then it was gone.
He stared at the glass, breath caught.
The notebook back in his room fluttered open on its own.
One line appeared in faint silver:
"The future is still watching."