Devin didn't sleep that night. He just couldn't
Devin lay on his back in the dark of his room, the window cracked just enough to let in wind. The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to red ash, but he hadn't moved to rekindle it
He was confused and exhausted at the same time.
His mind wouldn't let him rest, he was itching to know more
More than his family had ever revealed, more than history ever has.
Any thing that could explain such feeling of recognition and longing towards a stranger
Every time he closed his eyes, they came back.
Her eyes.
Not just their color, but their weight. The way they looked at him—unafraid, unguarded. The way they echoed everything.
And deeper still, the feeling he got when she'd bumped into him, the electricity in the air not magical, not volatile—just... true.
He'd trained his whole life to sense imbalance. He was imbued with knowledge that would guide his part as a knight
Protecting Hawthorne was his main objective and goal until he became unsure of how that would turn out.
She brought out a feeling that had been lost for a long time in him. She greatly interested him.
And suddenly, that felt like something he needed to understand.
Not because it was his duty.
Because it was personal now.
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But the next morning, he shifted his schedule. Took his breaks near the back halls. Passed the courtyard more than once under the excuse of retrieving supplies from the student office.
She wasn't there.
But she lingered in his thoughts. Like scent. Like sound. Elusive
He returned to the place where they collided. The old fountain near the ivy wall.
He ran his hand along the moss-covered stone.
It pulsed with memory.
She'd been here. Her presence lingered.
That scared him.
Because he had never been this sensitive. Ever.
________________
In the library, he found himself pacing the history aisle.
It was stupid, he told himself. She was just a girl. A new transfer. Quiet. Soft-spoken. Maybe a little strange. Maybe not.
And yet...
He skimmed the old student records.
There was nothing new. No recent additions. Just a blank administrative entry that had been filed without class designation or family sponsor.
Unclaimed.
Unmarked.
He looked at the name: Elora Peters.
Peters.
A common enough surname. But it didn't belong here. It wasn't one of the founding lines. Not a Barnes. Not a Vale. Not an Ashwood. Certainly not a Knight or a Winters.
But even her name made him chuckle softly
He muttered it under his breath. "Elora."
It tasted like something older.
He returned to the back table and opened an archived copy of The Founding Records of Hawthorne. Not the school version. The town's edition.
He searched the names.
Clove.
Scratched out.
A dozen pages. All with that same black smear.
Clove. Clove. Clove.
Exactly. The co-founding family along with theirs
History said they grew hungry and greedy for power
They had an affinity with nature so they manipulated it into death and chaos.
They were the catalyst of the first Hawthorne war. The war that wiped out a part of Hawthorne beyond repair leaving a small area which was the present Hawthorne town. In other words they were enemies of every families in Hawthorne town.
He was brought up with that history.
Cloves still lived, and it was the duty of the Knight family to keep them away from Hawthorne even if it meant blood shed.
He traced the edge of the ink, fingers numb.
It was as if someone had tried not just to erase them—but to rip them from the soil.
And suddenly, Devin was certain.
Cloves simply represented what greed could turn even nature itself into.
Thinking back to Elora, Devin decided to take a break remembering he had a sparring section with Elias.
Hawthorne was finally becoming interesting
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The stone courtyard behind the Knight estate had long since lost the smell of garden and grass. Here, iron ruled. Polished training blades hung from the walls like ceremonial scars. The air was sharp with cold and expectation.
Devin rolled his shoulders, twisting the hilt of his practice sword between his fingers.
Elias stood opposite him, grinning like a wolf with a secret.
"Still don't get why we have to train with these antiques," Elias said, adjusting his stance. "We could run a fire enchantment drill and be done in half the time."
Devin smirked. "You're just mad because the last enchantment drill singed your eyebrows."
"I was testing the ward's failure margin."
"You lit the flagpole on fire."
"It was flammable."
Devin lunged without warning.
Their blades met with a metallic crack, the sound echoing off the walls.
They moved quickly—fluid, practiced, not bothering with warm-up drills. This wasn't formality. This was reflex.
They circled. Parried. Advanced.
Elias feinted low, then pivoted and clipped Devin's shoulder lightly.
"That one's mine," he said smugly.
"Unimpressive," Devin muttered. "You still drop your guard every third step."
"That's not a guard drop. It's a tactical dare."
They fought harder.
Sweat beaded along Devin's jaw. His breathing stayed calm, measured. His thoughts, however, wandered.
As they always did now.
The girl. The root. The dreams.
Another clash. Another step back.
Then Elias chuckled between swings.
"Ever think we'll actually need this?" he asked, motioning at their blades. "I mean really need it. Not duels. Not discipline drills. Actual fight-or-die combat."
Devin raised a brow. "Didn't your uncle get jumped by a possessed goat spirit last year?"
"That wasn't a war. That was bad summoning."
Devin pressed in, then stopped short. "So what's your point?"
Elias stepped back and sheathed his blade. "My point is—our parents trained like this. Their parents too. Everyone since the first Hawthorne War. Trained to kill. To hold the line. To protect. And then what?"
He waved a hand toward the sky.
"They died of age, duty, or disease. No wars. No battles. Nothing to swing a sword for. Just legacy and expectation."
Devin exhaled and lowered his blade. "You're upset peace is working?"
Elias laughed. "No. I'm wondering if it's real."
Devin raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, doesn't it feel off?" Elias continued. "Like all this calm—it's too calm? Peace this long doesn't just happen. Not in a place like this."
Devin leaned against the courtyard wall, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Maybe peace is the point. Maybe that's what all the training's for—to preserve it. To make sure there isn't another war."
Elias looked at him sideways. "You really believe that?"
Devin didn't answer immediately.
He thought of Mira's words. Of Elora's eyes. Of the way the earth felt like it was shifting beneath his boots, little by little, every day.
Elias took his silence as agreement.
"Prolonged peace means one of two things," he said. "Either someone's doing a damn good job hiding the danger—or the danger's hiding itself."
He tossed Devin a cloth.
"Either way, I say sharpen your blade."
Devin watched him walk off.
The courtyard felt colder now.
And for once, it wasn't because of his blood.