The reflection still stared back at him. Not in the mirror's surface, not in water rippling gently in the stone basin — but in the pause of time itself.
Caelum took a half-step back, heart thudding softly. The water should have returned to its usual rhythm by now. And yet the faintest shimmer — no, echo — of his image remained even after he turned. It was as if the world itself had blinked slower, hesitant to let him go.
"Elowen," he murmured without turning around, voice almost unsure.
"I saw it too," she said quietly.
Her words fell into the garden like the petals around them, soft and weightless, but unmistakably real. The birds had gone silent. The one that mimicked her voice now tucked its head under its wing, as if it too had grown shy beneath the tension.
"I'm sorry," she added, stepping beside him. "I didn't mean to bring us somewhere so strange. I thought it would make you smile."
He looked down at her. Her shoulders curled inward, protective — as if afraid she had ruined something irreplaceable. The earlier joy had slipped from her like sunlight behind clouds. But he wasn't afraid. Not of the reflection. Not of the voice. Not of anything — not as long as she stood beside him.
Caelum reached out and gently brushed a curl away from her cheek. "You did make me smile," he said. "This place is perfect."
She blinked up at him, surprised.
"That voice wasn't yours," he continued. "Or mine. But it wasn't your fault."
Her lips parted. She didn't speak — didn't need to. Instead, she reached into the folds of her skirt and pulled something out.
A small rectangle, wrapped in cloth.
"I was going to give this to you earlier," she said, offering it without meeting his eyes. "But then the bird said that... and you looked... distant."
Caelum unwrapped the cloth carefully. Inside was a wooden bookmark, hand-carved, smoothed and sanded until the edges felt like silk beneath his fingers. A tiny rose was etched at the top — delicate and lopsided, as if someone had hesitated with the knife but finished anyway.
"I carved it in the greenhouse," she said, hurried now. "There was leftover wood, and I thought— I don't know. You like books, and I wanted you to have something."
He held it as if it were made of spun glass. His fingers trembled slightly — not from the weight, but the meaning.
"You made this... for me?" he asked, voice a little hoarse.
"I didn't carve bookmarks for just anyone," she mumbled. "And it probably doesn't even look like a rose. It's not very—"
"I love it," Caelum said, cutting gently across her words. "It's the best gift I've ever received."
She blinked again — twice, like her heart had skipped and tried to restart.
"Really?" she whispered.
He nodded. "Truly."
The silence that followed was different from the one that came before — no longer tense, but full. The kind that settled between people who didn't need to fill it with explanations. He offered her his hand.
She took it.
They left the garden slowly, letting the strange magic of the moment fade behind them like mist. By the time they stepped back into the stone halls of the estate, the echo of the voice and the lingering reflection had softened into the corners of memory — not forgotten, but folded away.
That night, Elowen didn't return directly to her room. Instead, she led Caelum up an old stairwell he hadn't noticed before — narrow and spiraling, tucked behind a hidden door near the study.
"Where are we going?" he asked, following her carefully.
"You'll see."
At the top was a small balcony, open to the night. The stars shimmered above them, thick and bright as if the heavens had leaned closer to the world. There were no lanterns here. Only the soft glow of starlight and the moon's silvery crown painting the stone floor.
"This was my mother's favorite place," Elowen said softly, stepping into the moonlight. "She used to bring me here when I was very small. After she was gone, I kept coming back."
She turned to him then, her expression unreadable.
"It's the only place in this estate that feels like it listens when I speak."
Caelum joined her slowly. "Then talk to me," he said. "And I'll listen too."
Her mouth curved slightly. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Things that make it impossible not to believe you."
She didn't sit right away — just stood there, arms folded loosely across her chest, eyes tracking the constellations above. The quiet between them stretched again — but now it was charged, alive with something fragile and brave.
"I've always known," she began at last, voice barely above a whisper, "that I wasn't meant to be... loved."
Caelum didn't speak. He only listened, his gaze steady.
"Not in the story. Not in the world. Not by fate. People say I'm dangerous — and maybe they're right. My magic acts on its own sometimes. It burns things. It breaks things. People leave because of it. Servants whisper behind doors. Tutors walk on eggshells."
She looked down at her hands. "My father only tolerates me. Because I'm noble. Because I'm useful."
Her shoulders drew in tighter. "No one ever told me I was someone worth staying for."
She didn't cry. She didn't tremble. Her voice didn't crack — but somehow, the quiet ache inside her made the stars feel colder.
And Caelum did the only thing that felt right.
He stepped beside her, sat down against the stone rail, and leaned his head gently against her shoulder.
Elowen's breath caught — not from surprise, but from the softness of it. The ease. The way he didn't hesitate, didn't try to solve, didn't even speak.
He simply was there.
They stayed that way for a long while — two silhouettes against the sky, tethered by nothing but stillness and warmth.
And then, in the quietest voice she'd ever used, Elowen whispered, "Promise me you won't let something take you from me."
Caelum lifted his head just slightly. Their eyes met. And even without a vow, she already knew his answer.
A soft glow shimmered from the notebook tucked into his coat.
Not a message.
Not a glitch.
Just a single, golden thread glowing across the page.
Not written. Not drawn. Alive.
He glanced at it briefly, then back at her.
"Nothing will," he said simply. "Not if I can help it."
Elowen smiled — tired, but honest — and leaned against him this time, her head resting gently beneath his jaw.
The stars blinked above.
And slowly, wrapped in moonlight and quiet promises, she drifted into sleep beside him.
The golden thread pulsed once.
And far, far away, something in the world shifted.
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I will start adding a system from the next chapter. I already gave hints in the previous ones if anybody noticed.