The wind outside howled like a restless spirit, pushing against the manor walls with fingers of cold rain. The doors creaked open, slow and reluctant, as if the house itself sensed something was wrong.
Caelum's breath caught.
A man stood on the threshold — cloaked in velvet black, his hood soaked and heavy, casting his face into shadows. Water pooled at his boots. Though he made no move, the air shifted around him, carrying an odd pressure, like the seconds before a lightning strike. The storm behind him flashed, illuminating his outline just long enough for Caelum to catch the glint of a brooch — a stylized eye etched in silver.
A symbol from the capital's magical archives.
Caelum stepped forward before he even thought to. "Who…"
"My name," the stranger said, his voice low, clear, and far too calm, "is Lord Theron. I've come on behalf of the Arcane Registry. Word of anomalies has reached the capital."
Elowen, who had appeared silently at the top of the stairs, went still.
The silence that followed was brittle. Even the storm seemed to pause in its fury, waiting for something to shatter.
"Anomalies?" Caelum echoed, eyes narrowing.
Theron looked up then. His hood slipped back, revealing a sharp-featured man with silver-streaked hair, eyes pale as fog, and an unreadable expression. He smiled thinly, as if it were a formality he disliked performing.
"Magical irregularities," he said, stepping into the manor with the unhesitating confidence of someone used to power. "Spikes in energy that don't align with documented ley lines. Or known casters."
His gaze flicked past Caelum — and landed on Elowen.
Her hand gripped the balustrade.
"We weren't expecting visitors," she said, and her voice held none of the softness Caelum had come to treasure. It was clipped. Cautious.
"I'm sure," Theron murmured. "But the flow of magic doesn't consult invitations."
Servants emerged from nearby halls, uncertain whether to bow or flee. The butler, pale and tight-lipped, gestured toward the drawing room with stiff courtesy.
"This way, my lord."
As the guest passed, Caelum reached into his pocket and felt the little wooden bookmark Elowen had carved him — the one she had gifted in a moment of unguarded affection beneath the garden trees.
It pulsed.
A soft warmth, like a heartbeat in his palm.
He stilled.
Theron's gaze, though seemingly directed elsewhere, felt like it brushed against him anyway — too perceptive by half.
Caelum tucked the bookmark deeper into his pocket.
Later, in the drawing room, the fire crackled with more vigor than the conversation.
"I won't stay long," Theron said, settling into a high-backed chair. "I only ask permission to observe the grounds. There are readings I must confirm."
"You'll find nothing," Elowen said smoothly, chin lifted. "This estate has stood since before the Third Accord. If there were 'anomalies,' we would know."
Theron tilted his head. "Would you?"
It wasn't an accusation. It was worse. A question dressed as politeness, draped in knowing.
Caelum's hands tightened around the porcelain teacup in his grip.
Theron turned to him then. "And you, Caelum of Valebrook?"
Caelum's eyes narrowed. "You know where I'm from."
"A mere detail." He smiled again, too sharp. "The capital keeps records."
And suddenly, Caelum knew.
Theron hadn't come merely because of ambient magic.
He had come because something — or someone — had changed the story.
That night, long after Theron had retreated to guest quarters near the western wing, Caelum sat in his room with the bookmark in hand.
It no longer felt like wood.
It glowed — subtly, faintly — like a single ember refusing to die.
When Theron had walked past him in the corridor earlier, the glow had intensified — not angrily, but warningly. A quiet flare of resistance.
Elowen's gift… was reacting.
To him.
To something he carried.
To something Theron disturbed merely by existing here.
Caelum opened the notebook, flipping to the most recent page.
No new messages.
No warnings.
Only the soft shimmer of the golden thread, still there — a silent reminder of everything they were building together.
He sat back, holding the bookmark to his chest, staring into the night.
Across the estate, Elowen stood alone by her window.
She couldn't sleep.
The rain had passed, but unease lingered like mist.
Theron's arrival hadn't just been unexpected — it felt… wrong. Like a note too sharp in a familiar melody.
She didn't trust him.
Not because of what he said.
But because of what he didn't.
Something in her bones whispered that his presence was more than official business. That the world was beginning to tilt again — the script pulling taut.
Her eyes drifted to the small shelf beside her bed.
A single wooden carving — another bookmark, half-finished.
She reached for it and ran her thumb along the edges.
"I won't let them take you from me," she whispered.
And though the wind howled no longer, she thought — just for a second — she heard it answer back.