Kaelan stood slowly. Every step toward the door felt heavier than it should, his heartbeat thudding a little too fast against his ribs. The morning seemed to dim around him, shadows pooling in the corners of the room as though retreating from whatever stood outside.
When he reached the door, he hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
The air felt charged, pressurized like the final moment before lightning touched the earth.
With a steadying breath, he unlatched the door and pulled it open.
A thin ribbon of mist drifted inside, curling at his ankles.
And there, standing right on the threshold, was an elderly man he had never seen before.
He looked as if he'd stepped out of another world entirely. His coat was soaked, hanging heavily on his frame, the wool darkened with rainwater. Mud splattered along the hem. Droplets fell from his hat, trickling down the deep lines of his face. But it wasn't his disheveled state that seized Kaelan's attention, it was the man's eyes.
Sharp.
Unblinking.
Gray as winter stone.
Eyes that seemed to see far more than they should.
Mr. Kaelan, the old man rasped.
Kaelan blinked, unsettled. Yes…? How do you know my name?
The old man did not answer right away. His gaze drifted over Kaelan's face, slow and deliberate, as though memorizing something he had been searching for.
When he finally spoke, his voice trembled strangely not from cold or age, but from something like certainty.
I have a message for you.
Kaelan felt his pulse stutter.
A message… from whom?
The man's lips twitched. Not a smile, no warmth touched his features but a faint, hollow pull at the corners of his mouth, as though he understood something Kaelan did not.
From someone who says, he murmured, you have begun to remember.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath Kaelan's feet.
A cold breath of wind slipped between them, carrying the scent of river water and damp earth. Kaelan swallowed, throat tight.
Who? he whispered.
The man lifted a shaking hand and placed something small, wrapped in damp cloth into Kaelan's palm.
You'll understand, he said quietly. Soon.
The moment the object touched Kaelan's skin, a faint warmth pulsed through the fabric.
What is this? Kaelan demanded. Who sent you? Wait--
But it was already too late.
The old man had stepped backward into the mist.
One step.
Two.
And then the fog swallowed him completely, unnervingly as if the world had simply folded him away.
Kaelan stared at the empty road, breath ragged in his chest.
His fingers tightened around the cloth.
Slowly, very slowly he unwrapped it.
The damp fabric fell aside and there, resting in his palm, was an object so intimate, so impossible, that his breath left him in a sharp exhale.
A small carved token.
Worn smooth with age.
Shaped like a flame.
And carved into it, weathered but unmistakable.
Ari.
Kaelan's heart stopped.
For a moment, all sound fell away. The world narrowed to the weight of the charm, to the warmth seeping into his skin, to the single name carved into the wood.
His voice broke on a whisper.
Aria…
The token grew warmer, as though responding.
A shiver crawled up Kaelan's spine not of fear, but of recognition, of inevitability, as if some truth, long buried, was rising through the cracks of his memory.
His breath trembled.
He pressed the charm to his chest and somewhere across Hawthorne, as Aria stood at her washbasin, preparing for another morning at the mill.
She suddenly stopped. The cup slipped from her hand and clattered into the basin.
Her breath hitched, sharp and unbidden, hand flying to her chest.
For just a moment.
A heartbeat.
A flicker.
It felt as though someone had spoken her name aloud.
Not in her ear.
But into her very soul.