The morning sun poured like liquid gold across the manor's east courtyard, filtering through the budding branches of wisteria trees that had begun to bloom early—perhaps coaxed into waking by the same quiet magic that seemed to wrap itself more tightly around Caelum and Elowen with each passing day.
Caelum found her there, in the little alcove beyond the greenhouse—a hidden pocket of green where vines grew wild and fragrant herbs spilled from cracked stone planters. Elowen sat cross-legged on the ground, skirts bunched carelessly around her ankles, brushing pollen from her fingertips as a bee hummed drowsily near her elbow. She looked up at him with a smile that twisted something in his chest.
"Did you know," she said softly, "that these flowers only bloom this early if they trust the hands that tend them?"
Caelum blinked, crouching beside her. "Are you saying I have magical gardening skills now?"
"No," she murmured, brushing his knuckles with the back of her hand. "I'm saying maybe the world is reacting to you too."
He didn't know how to answer that. Lately, it felt like the very air around Elowen trembled in response to his presence—as though the threads of this world, once woven tight to a predetermined pattern, were loosening at the seams just to accommodate the shape of his choices.
They sat in companionable silence for a time, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, the soft rustle of petals and the chirp of distant birds framing the moment. Caelum could feel the heartbeat of this world—this fragile, strange place he was beginning to call home—thrumming through the earth beneath them.
"I don't remember the novel describing anything like this," he murmured.
Elowen tilted her head, teasing. "Hmm? What novel?"
"Nothing," he said, smiling.
Later that day, the pair sneaked off toward the western wing, where the library lay cloaked in dust and shadows. Caelum had memorized the creaky boards well enough to avoid giving them away, and Elowen, barefoot and gleeful, followed close behind with a silk ribbon tying back her windswept curls.
They spent hours buried between books, not reading so much as pretending to, their laughter muffled between shelves. Caelum read lines in exaggerated tones, and Elowen added scathing commentary to entire chapters of noble etiquette, suggesting that tea parties were, in fact, thinly veiled battlefields.
"Are you ever afraid?" she asked suddenly, curled beside him on a velvet lounge.
"Of what?"
"That… none of this will last."
He didn't answer at once. Instead, he reached for her hand and traced his thumb along the inside of her wrist, where the pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
"If it's real to us," he said at last, "then it will last. For as long as we keep choosing it."
Her eyes shimmered, and she leaned in—foreheads brushing, warmth shared in a hush too intimate for words.
That night, while Caelum sat at his desk flipping through notes, the notebook glowed faintly. He opened it with care.
Only one line had appeared, inked in faint silver at the bottom of a blank page:
Bond Strength Increased. Interference Probability Lowered.
He stared at it for a long time.
"What are you?" he whispered to the empty air.
There was no reply.
But the candle flame beside him flickered unnaturally, just once. A whisper, or a warning. Or maybe a promise.
Outside, beneath the stars, Elowen stood on the garden path in her nightdress, barefoot and thoughtful. She looked up at his window. He met her gaze and raised a hand.
She didn't wave back.
Instead, she pressed her hand gently to her chest—over the place where her heart had begun to flutter in a rhythm that felt new. Unfamiliar.
And yet... right.