The garden was quieter than usual.
It had rained the night before, and everything was dripping with morning dew. Sunlight filtered through the high trees in strands of gold, catching on petals and blades of grass, painting the Thorne estate in a kind of soft, sleepy magic. The world felt half-awake, like it hadn't realized yet that it should return to its usual coldness.
Caelum stepped through the narrow path that curved behind the west wing, brushing aside a leafy curtain of ivy as he entered the abandoned garden. It had become his favorite place—their place, really. The air smelled of damp stone and wild roses. Everything here had been left alone by time, except for the places Elowen had touched.
And she had touched many of them.
Vines curved naturally around the spots where she liked to sit. Flowers bloomed brighter near the edges of her favorite reading stone. The wilting apple tree at the far end, once gray and dry, had begun to sprout tender green shoots. Caelum didn't think it was coincidence anymore.
Elowen was already there.
She sat in the middle of the garden, barefoot in the grass, her long white-blonde hair loose and trailing over her shoulders. A book lay forgotten in her lap, and her hands were pressed to the ground at her sides, palms flat. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing slow.
Caelum paused, watching.
The air around her shimmered faintly—not with heat, but with something like energy, like the garden itself was holding its breath.
He approached quietly, not wanting to disturb her, but the grass beneath his shoes still rustled. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking up at him. Her expression was unreadable for a moment… and then she smiled.
"You walk like a thief," she said softly.
Caelum raised an eyebrow. "Then it's a good thing I'm only stealing glances."
Elowen rolled her eyes, but her smile deepened. "That was terrible."
"You laughed."
"I did not."
"You smiled. It counts."
She patted the grass beside her. Caelum sat, tucking one leg beneath him, his shoulder brushing hers. The warmth of her skin lingered longer than it should have.
"Were you meditating?" he asked after a moment.
"Something like that," she replied. "It helps when the noise gets too loud."
He tilted his head. "There's no noise here."
"Not outside," she said, tapping lightly against her temple. "Here."
There was a pause. Caelum wanted to ask more, but instead he simply reached forward and plucked a pale blue flower growing beside them. It trembled in his hand, delicate as silk.
"Do they always bloom like this when you're near?" he asked.
Elowen hesitated. "Sometimes. They never used to."
Caelum turned to her. "What changed?"
She looked at him, and for a moment the garden stilled again, the trees quiet, the wind absent.
"You," she said.
His chest tightened. He swallowed.
"I don't—" he began, but she looked away, embarrassed, and picked up her book again.
"Never mind," she said quickly, tone light. "It's silly. Just… ignore me."
But Caelum didn't. He studied the flower in his hand, then reached over and gently tucked it behind her ear. She froze.
"I like silly things," he said.
Her breath hitched.
For a moment, neither spoke. The garden bloomed brighter.
Later, as the sun moved higher and the heat settled in, Elowen rose and led him to a vine-covered alcove Caelum hadn't noticed before. Behind it stood a stone bench beside an old wooden door half-sunk into the earth. She bent down, lifting a hidden latch, and the door creaked open to reveal a dark, dry passageway filled with the scent of old paper.
"I used to hide here," she said. "Before you came."
Caelum followed her inside. The tunnel opened into a circular room lined with shelves carved into the walls, filled with books. Old ones, with cracked leather and curled corners. In the center was a small table with a silver lantern hanging above it.
"Your secret library," he said.
"I thought you might like it," she said softly. "I found something… strange. I wanted to show you."
She reached for a small journal bound in faded purple cloth. It looked handmade, the edges uneven. She passed it to him.
The writing inside was in elegant, looping script—Elowen's mother's, from what Caelum remembered of her letters in the original novel. But these entries weren't about social events or noble obligations. They were about emotions. Magic. Resonance.
"When I was angry, the mirrors cracked," one line read. "When I grieved, the lilies in the hall withered. The maids blamed pests, but I knew it was me. I feel everything too much. And the world listens."
Caelum read silently, feeling the weight of each word. Elowen watched him, her face unreadable.
"You think your mother was like you," he said.
"She was stronger," Elowen whispered. "Or better at hiding it. I don't know. Maybe both."
The lantern above them flickered. Caelum closed the book slowly.
"I don't think you're meant to hide," he said.
She looked at him then—really looked. And for a moment, all the weight she carried flickered behind her eyes: the fear, the loneliness, the need to be understood without being feared.
She nodded, once.
When they stepped out of the tunnel hours later, the sky had turned lavender. The garden had bloomed while they were away—literally. Flowers that had been closed that morning now stretched wide, soft and glowing. Even the old apple tree bore a single white blossom.
Caelum reached for the notebook in his coat pocket and flipped it open.
A new line had appeared at the very bottom, faint as if written in mist:
Emotion-based Arcana Detected: Linked to Subject [Elowen Thorne].
But he didn't say anything. Not yet.
Instead, he turned back to Elowen, who was spinning in slow circles barefoot in the grass, her white dress catching the last golden light of the day.
And he thought—maybe this world isn't so broken after all.
Maybe, just maybe, he could save her.
Even if he had to burn the story to the ground.