Midnight settled over the Lory mansion like a held breath.
The old house, perched at the edge of the forest, seemed to listen to itself—every creak of timber, every sigh of wind threading through the wooden window frames, every distant rustle of leaves brushing against stone. Moonlight filtered through thin curtains, pale and cautious, touching only what it dared. And Nyx was awake.
He lay on the narrow bed in Eleus's room, staring at the ceiling beams, counting the spaces between them as if numbers could quiet his mind. Sleep refused him. It always did, especially after nights like the last—nights soaked in unanswered questions, in the strange weight of Eleus's silence, in the feeling that the truth hovered just beyond reach.
His eyes drifted, inevitably, to the cupboard.
It stood in the far corner of the room—old oak, darkened by age, its surface nicked and cracked like skin that had lived too long without healing. Earlier that evening, Nyx had watched Eleus cross the room distractedly, shoving a letter inside it without reading it, as though the paper itself burned. That small, careless movement had lodged itself in Nyx's mind like a thorn.
Curiosity warred with discipline.
Nyx had been trained not to pry. Not into evidence before time. Not into lives that weren't his case. But Eleus wasn't a case. He was a mystery wrapped in flesh and silence, and Nyx had never been able to turn away from mysteries.
Slowly, deliberately, Nyx slipped from the bed.
The floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet, their faint groan swallowed by the wind outside. He crossed the room with the quiet precision of a predator, pausing once when Eleus shifted slightly in his sleep. But Eleus didn't wake. He never did—not easily.
Nyx reached the cupboard and hesitated.
Then he opened it.
The door creaked softly, a sound too loud in the stillness, and Nyx froze until the house settled again. Inside, there was no order—no careful stacking, no neat piles. Just letters. Dozens of them. Envelopes scattered and stuffed and bent, their edges yellowed, their wax seals broken long ago. Some were folded tightly, others crumpled like they had been clenched in anger and then discarded.
All of them bore the same handwriting.
Nyx picked one up.
The paper felt thin, fragile, as though time itself had been eating it. He unfolded it carefully, letting the moonlight illuminate the words written in delicate, slanted strokes.
Eleus,
I waited again tonight. The lake was quiet. I thought maybe you'd come when the fog lifted, but you didn't. I'll be there tomorrow too. I always am.
Nyx's breath slowed.
He read another. And another.
Each letter was a quiet plea, a soft ache pressed into ink. Jane Cullen's words were not dramatic, not demanding. They were patient. Desperate in their restraint. She wrote of evenings spent by the lake, of counting ripples in the water, of speaking to the trees because no one else would listen. She wrote of love that refused to die even when ignored.
Nyx's chest tightened.
Eleus wasn't alone because no one cared.
He was alone because he refused to reach back.
The realization settled heavily, reshaping everything Nyx thought he knew about the man who had pulled him from drowning, who had taught him discipline and restraint, who carried himself like someone already half-buried.
Nyx replaced the letters exactly as he found them and closed the cupboard.
Morning came like an intrusion.
The frost-coated railings of Green Walls Academy gleamed beneath a pale sun, students filling the courtyard with noise and motion. Laughter bounced between stone walls. Books slammed shut. Shoes scuffed against ice. It was a normal morning.
Nyx moved through it untouched.
He walked with his usual measured stride, shoulders straight, expression unreadable. But beneath that calm, his thoughts churned. Jane's words echoed in his mind. The lake. The waiting. The silence Eleus had chosen again and again.
Inside the classroom, Mrs. Anora's sharp voice sliced through the hum of conversation.
"Mr. Nyx."
He stopped.
Her hawk-like gaze fixed on him, lips thinning. "Care to explain your absence yesterday?"
Nyx said nothing.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable, until a hand lifted from the middle row.
Jury Silla.
His smirk came easily, practiced. "He bunked, ma'am."
Whispers rippled across the room like a wave.
Mrs. Anora's disappointment hit harder than anger. "Detention," she said coldly. "And next time, remember you're not above rules."
Nyx lowered himself into his seat without protest, but his eyes flicked briefly to Jury.
The stare he gave him was quiet. Controlled.
Venomous.
After school, Nyx returned to the Lory residence with a resolve sharpened into certainty.
He found Eleus by the window, staring out at the pale afternoon light, his reflection faint in the glass. He looked young—too young—for the exhaustion etched into his face.
"We're going to the lake," Nyx said.
Eleus barely reacted. "Why."
"I want to swim."
A lie. A thin one. But Nyx didn't waver.
Eleus hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes—fear, maybe, or memory—but eventually he nodded.
The lake lay quiet beneath skeletal trees, its surface smooth and deceptive. Cold air clung to the water, and the silence felt deliberate, expectant.
They swam without speaking.
The water bit hard, numbing limbs and thoughts alike. Nyx cut through it cleanly, strong and controlled. Eleus moved more slowly, like someone testing the depth of something he didn't want to face.
Footsteps crunched against stone.
Nyx heard them first.
Jane Cullen stood at the edge of the lake, breath fogging in the air, eyes wide as if she had stumbled into a dream she had been praying for and fearing in equal measure.
"Eleus…"
She ran to him.
Her arms wrapped around him with desperate strength, fingers clutching fabric as though he might vanish again if she loosened her grip. Words spilled from her in broken fragments—waiting, letters, nights by the water, hope stretched thin but unbroken.
Eleus stiffened.
Then, slowly, cruelly, he pulled away.
"I don't know you," he said.
The words landed like a blade.
Jane froze.
The light in her eyes dimmed, flickering like a dying flame. Eleus turned and walked back toward the car, leaving her standing there, shattered.
Nyx followed, anger burning through his restraint.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. "She loves you. At least explain."
Eleus snapped.
"Sit in the car."
The drive back was suffocating.
Then the sky darkened.
The air thickened.
Jane appeared above the road, suspended unnaturally, her descent graceful and terrifying. The car groaned as she landed atop it, metal bending beneath her weight.
Nyx stared.
The transformation was undeniable.
Power rippled around her, invisible yet overwhelming. A wide-brimmed hat formed as if summoned from shadow. Her braid whipped violently in the air. Her eyes glowed with something ancient.
A witch.
She lifted Eleus effortlessly, pulling him into the air, and kissed him.
The truth slammed into Nyx with brutal clarity.
When she set Eleus down, Jane smiled sadly.
"I just wanted a goodbye," she said.
And then she was gone.
Back at the mansion, the silence was unbearable.
Nyx followed Eleus upstairs, refusing to let the night swallow the truth. When Eleus locked himself in the bathroom, Nyx waited.
Steam filled the room.
Eleus slipped into the bath, water swallowing him slowly.
Nyx watched, mind fractured by what he had seen.
Then it happened.
A vision—unbidden, vivid.
Eleus reaching for him. Pulling him close. Lips brushing skin. Heat. Breath. Intimacy twisted and wrong.
Nyx jerked violently, heart pounding.
Horror flooded him.
The image clung like a stain.
Why had his mind done that?
Why now?
He sat rigid, shaken, staring at Eleus through the steam, feeling something dark shift inside him—fear not just of secrets, but of himself.
And as the night deepened, Nyx understood one thing with terrifying certainty:
The world he thought he lived in had cracks.
And something ancient was watching from the other side.