The quiet between them held like breath suspended. The room flickered with soft candlelight, shadows painting slow shapes along the library walls as Caelum and Elowen lingered together, still nestled on the couch near the tall windows fogged by the rain's lingering kiss.
Elowen's fingers hovered, uncertain, near his hand — that same light contact from earlier still haunting her. Caelum glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, as if drawn by something deeper than thought, he gently turned his palm upward, silently offering it again.
This time, Elowen placed hers there fully. No hesitation.
Their fingers twined in silence, a promise sealed in touch and not words.
Outside, the rain eased into mist. The hush it left behind was almost too fragile.
The following morning dawned with silver light and the scent of damp stone. Caelum woke earlier than usual, unable to shake the dream from the night before — the one where a red thread tied his wrist to Elowen's. It hadn't burned or pulled. It simply was. Soft, glowing. Undeniable.
He didn't tell her about it. Not yet.
Instead, they fell into their quiet routine — another day of study, small shared meals, unspoken glances that lasted a second longer than they used to.
But the world, it seemed, had tired of being still.
It happened in the greenhouse.
The sky was clear by then — deceptively serene. Elowen had taken Caelum there after breakfast, eager to show him the seasonal blooming of a rare crescent-shaped lily that only bloomed once every three years. It was tucked in the far corner of the glasshouse, surrounded by floating ferns and vines that danced gently even without wind.
She was happy — genuinely so. Caelum saw it in her eyes.
"I used to come here alone when I couldn't sleep," she told him, brushing her fingers over a glowing sprig of foxvine. "I used to think maybe these plants whispered when no one was listening."
Caelum smiled. "Maybe they were waiting for someone who listened back."
Elowen turned her face away, hiding something tender in her expression.
And then—
A loud snap. A crack of wood overhead.
Caelum turned just in time to see a rotting beam—no doubt damaged from the previous storm—give way. The vines supporting it came loose, and a cascade of heavy wooden shards and iron hooks plummeted toward them.
"Elowen—!"
He pushed her back with one arm and tried to duck, but the largest beam was already falling—
A sharp, howling wind burst through the greenhouse with unnatural force. The plants writhed. The air itself seemed to shimmer. And from Elowen's chest, a pulse of raw magic exploded outward.
The beam shattered mid-air—splinters hurling in all directions like daggers of light. A vine snapped tight around Caelum's leg and yanked him backward into the wall. His shoulder cracked against the glass with a sharp, sick sound. He didn't cry out.
Elowen stood at the center of the devastation, hair lifted as if by a storm, eyes wide and glowing gold — her power unbound.
And then silence.
The air stilled. Her magic fell like a curtain being drawn back. She turned slowly and saw him on the ground.
Blood at his temple. Eyes still open.
"No—no, no—" Her knees hit the earth. "Caelum—"
He groaned softly, trying to sit up. "Still here…"
But she didn't hear him — not truly. Her hands trembled. "I did this. I—I did this—"
"Elowen," he murmured, voice soft but sure. "Look at me."
She refused.
So he reached up — arm aching — and touched her wrist.
"I'm not afraid of you," he whispered.
Her breath hitched.
"I'm not," he said again, firmer this time. "Even now."
She didn't cry — not exactly. But something cracked in her expression, like glass catching light the wrong way.
Later, he lay bandaged in his room, propped up on a mountain of pillows. She hadn't left his side since. Not once.
The servants had seen it — the flash of her uncontrolled magic, the way the glasshouse walls had buckled inward. Whispers had already begun again. The "Thorne Witch." The "Unstable Heiress."
Elowen heard them. Caelum saw it in the way her shoulders stiffened whenever a maid passed.
She locked herself in her chambers before nightfall.
Caelum knocked. "Elowen?"
No answer.
He didn't knock again.
Instead, he sat down cross-legged outside her door with a book in his lap — A Field Guide to Forest Spirits, of all things. Something light, something familiar.
He began reading aloud.
At first, it was awkward. His voice cracked once or twice. But he kept going.
And then—
A click.
The door creaked open just enough to reveal her silhouette.
He didn't say a word. Just smiled.
"I hurt you," she whispered.
"I got hurt because something fell," he said. "You protected me."
"But—"
"I'm here. Aren't I?"
Elowen blinked.
And then opened the door fully.
She sat beside him quietly for a long time. Then, without looking at him, reached for his hand and held it to her chest.
Her heartbeat trembled beneath his fingers.
"I'm scared of what I might be," she whispered.
Caelum leaned closer, so their foreheads nearly touched.
"Then let me remind you of who you are."
They sat there in silence, two heartbeats steadying each other.
That night, Caelum slept soundly for the first time in days.
In his dream, the red thread returned — brighter this time, tangled around both their hands.
And in the notebook, now half-buried beneath his pillow, a faint line appeared in silver ink:
"Deviation expands. Proximity threshold exceeded."
It pulsed once. Then faded.