The pages trembled in her grip.
Elowen stood frozen beneath the fading candlelight of the library alcove, her breath caught somewhere between awe and unease. The forbidden journal she had dared to open—one buried beneath enchantments and forgotten legends—rested open in her hands, its ink glowing faintly in the dark like veins of molten gold.
Her fingers hovered over a cryptic line etched into the worn parchment.
"He was not written to stay."
She closed the book with a soft snap, the sound barely louder than her breath. When she turned, Caelum was watching her—not questioning, not intruding, just… waiting.
Their eyes met across the silent library. The flickering lamplight cast moving shadows across the shelves and along the stone archways, as if even the room was holding its breath.
She gave the smallest nod.
He didn't ask what she'd seen. He simply held out his hand.
And she took it.
—
The quiet hush of night cloaked the garden in silver as they slipped through the overgrown hedges and into a secluded corner of the estate rarely tended to anymore. Here, tangled wildflowers brushed their ankles and untamed vines reached up toward the stars. Moss covered old stone benches, and the air was perfumed with jasmine and something older—earthy, damp, full of memory.
Nestled among the brambles was a clearing, illuminated faintly by moonlight. In its center stood a lone magnolia tree, its petals pale against the dark, and surrounding it were wild songbirds.
They chirped lazily at first, stirred by the movement. Then, as Caelum and Elowen stepped into the open, one bird tilted its head… and whistled something.
"Elowen," it chirped brightly.
Caelum blinked. "Did that bird just—"
"Elowen," it repeated, giggling in cadence.
Elowen's laughter spilled into the night, soft and incredulous. "I used to come here as a child," she explained, settling onto the mossy bench. "The birds mimic voices. My voice. Mother's. Even the gardeners'. They pick up sounds like little echoes."
"Do they remember everything?"
"No," she said, smiling. "Just the moments that mattered."
Caelum watched her with quiet admiration. The moonlight painted her skin in silver, and for a brief, breathless moment, she looked less like a girl burdened by prophecy and more like a child who had once known how to dream.
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"Here," Elowen murmured suddenly, reaching into the pocket of her shawl. "I made this for you."
She pressed a small object into his hand.
It was a wooden bookmark, smooth and warm to the touch. A carved symbol rested near the top—two intertwined leaves and a single star. He turned it over reverently, then looked up at her.
"I remember you said you always lose your place in books," she said, suddenly bashful. "So… I thought this might help."
Caelum smiled—not the quick, polite one he wore for nobles, but the one that softened every angle of his face. He tucked the bookmark safely into his coat pocket like it was something far more precious than it appeared.
"Thank you," he said, voice low. "It's perfect."
They sat there for a while in companionable silence, the songbirds chirping idly around them. One bird repeated a line Elowen had whispered only hours earlier. Another mimicked Caelum's quiet laugh. The garden was alive with echoes, fragments of joy floating in the dark.
And then—
"He must not change fate," one bird intoned in a voice not quite theirs.
The world seemed to hold still.
Elowen stiffened. "That… wasn't me."
"Nor me," Caelum whispered.
They turned toward the bird in question—a small, gray-feathered creature perched above the fountain's rim. Its eyes glinted like glass, and for a heartbeat too long, it stared directly at Caelum.
A breeze stirred the surface of the fountain's water.
Caelum stepped toward it and leaned down.
His reflection stared back—but not quite in time.
The water rippled, but his image did not. It lagged behind the movement of his head by a breath, a blink, an impossible sliver of a second.
He inhaled sharply.
"Caelum?" Elowen stepped beside him. "What is it?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Because even when he looked away—
The reflection did not.
It stared at him still, eyes glassy, expression unreadable.
Elowen placed a hand gently on his sleeve. "Let's go. Please."
Caelum turned toward her—and the reflection blinked a beat too late.
Together, they left the garden behind, but even as the night air swallowed their footsteps, Caelum couldn't shake the feeling that something had watched them walk away.
From the water.
From the sky.
Or worse—something deep inside the story itself.
—
The manor was quiet when they slipped back inside. The corridors were lit only by sconces glowing with soft, enchanted fire, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
They didn't speak as they returned to their respective rooms.
But just before they parted, Elowen hesitated.
Then—without words—she leaned in and pressed her forehead lightly against his shoulder, just for a second.
Caelum stood very still.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice barely audible.
"For what?"
"For… coming back with me."
He wanted to ask what she meant, but she was already walking away, the hem of her nightgown whispering over the floors like ghost-light.
He didn't sleep that night.
Not just because of the bird.
Not just because of the reflection.
But because of the weight of something unspoken… that now hung between them like a thread spun from gold and silence.
And somewhere, across the room, the journal on his desk opened itself to a blank page.
No ink.
No words.
Just a thin, golden line drawn down the center.