Chapter Thirty-Seven
"A Step Further Back"
from Have You Someone to Protect?
by ©Lhady Amer
The rain had passed two days ago, but the earth remained soft and heavy with water. Patches of the training field behind the bookshop were still sunken and slippery, the soil reluctant to dry beneath Solara's slow spring sun. So the training resumed indoors.
They used the long chamber behind the reading corner—a space once reserved for sorting damaged tomes and quiet repairs. Today, the shelves were cleared. A sigil, complex and pulsing faintly with magical residue, was inked in a wide circle on the wooden floor.
Lhady knelt at its center, fingers hovering just above the design. Her breath came slow and steady—just as she'd been taught. But her thoughts wandered.
The faint scent of river mist clung to her memory, tangled with the warmth of wool and the weight of a shawl that hadn't dried. That morning's silence had been sharp—not in words, but in the way certain glances didn't meet. It tugged at her, unbidden, just as the pull of a name whispered too often in her chest.
To eyes she hadn't dared meet that morning. To a shawl still damp in memory. To a man whose silence said more than words.
"Lhady." Elias's voice sliced through her spiral. Firm, steady. "Focus."
She blinked. Too late. Her magic surged unsteadily, reacting to her heartbeat instead of her will. The sigil lines pulsed in protest. A low hum rose in the room.
"Lhady!" Elias stepped forward, swift and sure. His hands closed over hers—not forcefully, but guiding. Energy stilled under his touch, redirected and softened. The sigil dulled to a safer glow.
"You nearly cracked the outer ring," he said, quieter now but edged with concern. "You know what that could've meant."
She lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry."
"I don't need sorry. I need your control." He stepped back, arms crossing. "The full moon is in less than two weeks. Your vessel has to be ready."
Her eyes widened. "That soon?"
Elias gave a curt nod. "The surge during full moons isn't forgiving. We'll double the containment work until then." His tone wasn't cruel—just heavy, like someone bearing a truth too important to soften.
"I can do it," she whispered.
He looked at her—not unkindly. "Then clear your mind of whoever's stealing your focus."
She froze.
"Or whatever it is," he added more gently, turning away to give her space. "You're shifting. I can tell."
And he wasn't wrong.
She hadn't noticed before, but it was true. Her focus—once entirely on the shop, its rhythm, its rules—now wavered.
To Caelum. Not just to his presence—but to its absence. The way he'd stayed quiet since the river. Present, yes. Still watchful. But that day, he'd stepped one pace further back. No longer beside Elias. No longer near the threshold. Just far enough to make her wonder:
Was she imagining it? Or had something truly changed?
During a short break, Lhady stepped into the hallway by the back window, arms loosely folded. Through the glass, she could see the side yard behind the shop.
Caelum stood alone in the stone clearing, his cloak lifting slightly in the breeze. In his gloved hands, he held a silver ring etched with delicate runes.
She tilted her head, curiosity pulling her closer to the pane.
From the ring, shadows swirled and condensed with an almost liquid grace, forming a sleek, dark bird whose feathers shimmered like ink in moonlight. It tilted its head, unnaturally still, as if listening to something only it could hear—its form both ephemeral and precise, as though crafted from whispered night and ancient memory. Its feathers shimmered faintly with magic. The creature didn't chirp or shift—it simply waited.
Caelum fastened a small scroll to its leg with practiced ease. One beat of its wings—and it was gone.
She hadn't seen that before. Had he always done this when she wasn't looking? Or had she never truly looked?
Now, she couldn't look away.
Caelum had tied the scroll with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before.
A message, always a message. To the only one left from that mission. The only one who knew why he stayed. To someone who hadn't shown herself in years—not out of distance, but caution. The fewer ties, the fewer trails. Safer that way. For all of them.
He hadn't meant for Lhady to see. Not this part. Not the ring. Not the bird. Not the way he stood—deliberate, distant—as if shielding something. He feared what she might think: that the message meant more than duty, that the connection it carried had weight he couldn't explain. That his silence after the river had roots not just in guilt, but in something—or someone—else.
He just wanted her to feel safe. Not burdened with more questions. Not pulled into things he couldn't yet explain.
The bird was a tether. To her. Not Lhady.
And yet—
Every time he used the ring, it felt like threading his past through the present. Knotting a line he wasn't sure should stay tied.
He told himself it was duty. Loyalty. A promise unkept.
But guilt tangled differently now. Because Lhady had seen.
And for one breathless second, he wished it had been for her.
He hoped sending a message could be as simple as speaking to Lhady— getting her to open up. To stay.
But messages didn't falter. They didn't hesitate. They didn't carry hearts afraid to speak first.
Across town, in the quiet warmth of the Good Inn, Silas sat near the hearth with Malric. Firelight flickered gold across the table between them, where half-finished tea and bread sat cooling.
"She's fine, you know," Malric said.
Silas didn't look up.
Malric tried again. "Caelum's with her."
Silas's jaw tensed, but he stayed silent. A flicker of memory crossed his mind—Lhady standing by the river, soaked and shivering, her shawl forgotten in the reeds. He had replayed that image more times than he cared to admit, wondering if she'd looked for him, if she'd waited. The stranger had carried her, not him. He was the one who'd pulled her out—but the one beside her when she woke was someone else. His silence wasn't just restraint—it was a shield against the ache that refused to quiet.
"You've been sighing at your tea for ten minutes," Malric added. "It's unnerving."
"I should check on her," Silas muttered. "But I don't have a reason."
Malric didn't miss a beat. "Borrow a book."
Silas blinked.
"It's a bookshop," Malric said plainly. "Ask for that one she made you read when we were fifteen. You hated it. She'll remember."
A pause. Then, slowly, a reluctant smile crept across Silas's lips.
"I do have a report to deliver—something near the southeast."
"Perfect," Malric said. "You're traveling. You stopped for literature. Totally reasonable."
Silas leaned forward, a quiet resolve setting in. "I think I will."
Malric raised his mug. "That's my commander."
By the time the sun had lowered, training was done. The sigil chamber was cleaned, ink stored, and the tension—at least for now—had eased.
Lhady sat near the low bench at the far end of the room, arms resting on her knees.
A soft thump at the doorway drew her attention.
Caelum entered quietly, setting down a tray beside her—juice and berry-filled rolls brushed with honey.
She glanced up. "You didn't have to."
"I know," he said. "But I wanted to."
She reached slowly for the glass. Her lips parted, as if to speak.
But before any words could escape, Elias strolled in and snatched a pastry without breaking stride.
"I'll just leave you both," he muttered, already vanishing toward the front of the shop.
And just like that, Caelum and Lhady were alone again.
No excuses. No observers. Only silence—and all that remained unsaid between them.
Lhady glanced down at the half-eaten pastry in her hand, the sweet lingering on her tongue without flavor. A flicker of memory—cold water, a hand pulling her up, and the warmth of a cloak not her own—drifted through her chest. She hadn't dared ask him about that day, afraid of what his answer might confirm.
She'd lied. Not fully. But enough. Enough to wonder if he saw her recklessness as betrayal.
Would he be angry? Had he already pulled away?
Does he regret it? the thought pressed, unbidden.
And still, she couldn't bring herself to speak.
She wondered if he felt it too—this weight between them, made not of burden, but of the nearness of something unnamed.
The silence swelled. And in it, her heartbeat whispered what her voice could not.
Please don't step further back.