The morning sun filtered through silken curtains, tracing golden patterns over the dark wooden floors of the east wing. Somewhere outside, the blooms of House Thorne's vast garden shimmered with dew, and a bird trilled a soft, melancholic song as though narrating a story only the wind could understand.
Caelum lay awake in bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Elowen's ribbon still hung loosely around his wrist like a secret promise, its violet thread dulled by the dim morning light, but no less precious. He hadn't removed it. Not even once.
There was something about the way she'd tied it—deliberately, with a rare touch of nervousness—that haunted his thoughts. His fingers brushed the ribbon idly, remembering the slight tremble in her hand when she gave it to him, the shimmer in her eyes that she tried to hide behind her usual poise.
A knock pulled him from the thought. Light, hesitant.
"Elowen?" he guessed, sitting up.
The door creaked open just a little. A pair of blue eyes peeked through.
"You're awake," she said softly, stepping in, a book cradled to her chest.
"I've been up for a while. Couldn't sleep," Caelum admitted. "Is that…?"
Her cheeks tinged pink. "The book you asked for. From the library. I found it tucked away near the herbology section."
She crossed the room, setting it beside him on the bed. But instead of pulling away, she hesitated.
Caelum tilted his head. "Something wrong?"
She didn't answer at first. Her fingers touched the edge of the ribbon around his wrist.
"You… really didn't take it off."
"Of course not." His voice was quieter now. "It matters. You matter."
Elowen blinked, her throat bobbing. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in her lap. "I'm… not used to things like this. People meaning it when they say kind things."
Caelum reached out gently, brushing a strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear. "Then let me be the first of many."
The silence that followed was heavy with something unsaid. And yet, not uncomfortable. It hummed between them like a lullaby neither could remember the words to, but still found familiar.
"Will you come with me?" she asked suddenly, standing. "There's something I want to show you."
They walked side by side through the garden, their pace unhurried. The blooms swayed as they passed, subtle shifts in the air suggesting something more attentive than mere wind. As if the garden itself had grown fond of watching them.
Elowen led him to a secluded corner he hadn't seen before—a stone bench half-hidden behind a lattice of flowering vines. The clearing was quiet, save for the soft bubbling of a nearby fountain shaped like an ancient phoenix, moss blooming around its wings.
"This was my mother's favorite spot," Elowen said, sitting down. "She called it 'the heart of the garden.'"
Caelum sat beside her. "It's peaceful. It suits you."
She let out a soft laugh. "I'm not sure anyone's ever told me I was peaceful."
"I'm not sure anyone saw you properly before now."
Her hand rested on the bench between them, fingers slowly inching toward his.
"You make me want to believe in things again, Caelum. In people. In… something better than fate."
Caelum didn't respond with words. He simply interlaced his fingers with hers and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
They sat like that for a long while. The sun climbed higher, filtering through the vines like strands of silk. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed—signaling the hour—but neither moved.
Later that evening, as Caelum flipped through the pages of the book Elowen brought him, a soft glow pulsed from beneath his pillow.
The notebook.
Its pages fluttered open on their own, landing on a blank spread. Then, in golden script:
An invisible thread is strengthening. One not even fate anticipated.
Below it, a second line flickered into view—barely visible, as though trying to resist being seen:
...but every thread pulled, tightens another.
Caelum stared at the words, unease stirring beneath his ribs. The sweetness of the day lingered in his mind, but the final line lingered longer.
Something—perhaps the very world he now stood within—was beginning to feel the strain of his presence.
It was watching.