The candle had long since burned low, casting a thin curl of smoke into the air. Shadows danced gently along the walls of Elowen's bedroom as the last remnants of the storm quieted outside. A hush lingered between them, not awkward but tender — the kind of silence that settles when words have done all they can, and the heart speaks in its place.
Caelum still sat beside her, their hands no longer touching but not far apart either. Elowen had drawn her knees to her chest atop the window seat, watching the last raindrops slide down the glass like silver threads. Her nightgown's soft fabric shimmered faintly, and her hair clung in curls to the edge of her collarbone.
"I like the quiet after storms," she murmured, breaking the silence. Her voice was quieter than usual, as if speaking louder might break something fragile in the air.
"It's like the world holds its breath," Caelum replied, resting his cheek against the windowpane. "Waiting to see what's changed."
Elowen glanced at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "And do you think it has?"
Caelum met her gaze. "Yes. I do."
She blinked slowly, and though she didn't smile, the corner of her mouth tugged ever so slightly, softening her entire face. "Then maybe... the storm was worth it."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He just leaned closer — not enough to touch, not enough to surprise her — but enough for her to know he was there, that he would continue to be. And in the quiet that followed, the space between them shrank in more ways than one.
The next morning broke crisp and bright, with the dew still clinging to the gardens and the staff of House Thorne bustling to make up for the work delayed by the rain.
Caelum found Elowen in the greenhouse, her sleeves rolled up and boots muddied. She was crouched beside a delicate flowering vine that had clearly taken damage in the storm, its leaves bruised and curling inwards.
"I didn't expect to see you out here so early," he said, stepping around a cluster of rosemary pots.
She looked up at him and stood, brushing soil from her hands. "I couldn't sleep. And I thought I'd check on the plants. They don't complain, but they hurt too."
Caelum chuckled lightly, offering her a handkerchief. "You're kinder than you let on, you know."
"You're more persistent than you let on," she countered, taking it from him and wiping her palms. "Why are you really here?"
He hesitated. "To see if you were alright."
The honesty caught her off-guard. Her eyes flickered with surprise, and then softened. "Thank you," she said quietly, almost too quietly for the glass walls to hold.
A soft magical hum lingered in the air between them, barely perceptible — but Caelum noticed it. A vibration under the soles of his boots, like the greenhouse itself was holding its breath.
"Is something… humming?" he asked, glancing around.
Elowen tilted her head. "That's the warding spell. The greenhouse is old, and sometimes it reacts to certain energies." She walked toward a patch of glowing foxglove. "Or people."
Caelum raised an eyebrow, following her carefully. "Should I be concerned?"
Before she could answer, a sharp crack echoed from above. A vine, loosened by the storm and improperly tied, came crashing down from a trellis beam — dragging with it several pots balanced overhead.
Caelum's instincts flared, and he moved to shield Elowen, pushing her lightly to the side — just as a large shard of pot struck his shoulder and another clipped his temple.
There was a flash — not of light, but of feeling. A rush of panic, fury, and raw emotion — not Caelum's, but hers.
The air trembled.
The temperature dropped.
And then the greenhouse exploded with power.
The flowers trembled violently. Soil erupted from pots. The vines near Elowen surged forward, alive and wild, lashing out at the air with unnatural speed. The trellis above cracked apart with an ear-splitting snap as magic rippled outward like a thunderclap.
Caelum staggered back, blood trickling down the side of his face.
"Elowen—!" he gasped, trying to reach her.
But she wasn't herself. Her eyes had gone glossy, not glowing — worse. Empty. Like something inside had cracked wide open. Her magic was no longer contained.
The winds in the greenhouse howled with invisible force. Glass trembled in its panes. Even the sunlight fractured strangely across the enchanted barriers, twisting light into violent threads.
"Elowen!" he called again, louder this time, and stepped through a wall of wild vines to reach her. One thorned tendril slashed across his arm, but he didn't flinch.
He reached her — pale, shaking, her breath coming in shallow bursts. Her hands glowed with unstable energy, fingertips arcing with light.
"Look at me," he said firmly, catching both her wrists in his own bloodied hands. "It's me. Caelum."
Her eyes focused — just for a heartbeat.
And then, all at once, the magic collapsed.
The vines recoiled. The energy drained. The light disappeared like water poured into dry soil.
Elowen fell forward against him, trembling. "I didn't… I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he said, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "I know."
Her voice broke. "I hurt you."
"It was an accident."
"They'll hate me even more now," she whispered.
Caelum pulled back just enough to cup her cheeks in his hands, ignoring the cuts along his arms. "Let them. I won't."
She stared at him, eyes glistening.
"You're not a monster," he said softly. "You're a girl who's been alone for too long."
And she did something then she hadn't before — not fully. She leaned in and rested her forehead against his, her breath shaking, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
Later, the whispers began.
Servants murmured about shattered pots, broken vines, bloodied sleeves. The head gardener shook his head grimly. The maids avoided Elowen's gaze.
She noticed it all.
So she locked herself in her room that night.
And refused to come out.
Caelum, bandaged and stubborn, sat himself outside her door with a book in hand and a pillow he'd stolen from the library.
He didn't knock. He didn't beg. He simply started reading aloud, his voice calm and gentle, page by page.
Time passed.
He shifted when his leg began to fall asleep, continued when the candle burned low, and read on through the quiet hush of evening.
Then — finally — the door creaked open.
Elowen stood there, her expression unreadable, her eyes rimmed red. She stepped out and knelt beside him without a word, and gently placed her hands over his wounds.
Light bloomed between her palms. Warm. Healing.
And when she finished, she didn't retreat.
Instead, she stayed there beside him in the hall, her shoulder brushing his, not speaking, not crying, just breathing.
Together.
That night, the notebook on Caelum's desk opened by itself.
A faint line appeared across the page, glowing like a candle seen through fog:
"Proximity threshold exceeded. Protective magic deviation expanding."
And beneath it, in tiny shimmering ink:
"Do not let go."