The moment Aurora screamed—no, roared—the entire Forbidden Wing trembled.
A blinding light burst from within her—raw, untamed, ancient.
It wasn't just power. It was memory. Grief.
Every wound she'd ever hidden flaring to life in a blaze no one could contain.
The creeping vines shrieked like living things being torn apart, writhing, withering, turning black and lifeless.
The very walls of the Hall pulsed once—like the heartbeat of something old and angry, stirring beneath centuries of stone.
And then—
Silence.
---
Aurora dropped like a stone.
Her body slammed to the floor, limbs crumpling awkwardly beneath her. The light winked out in an instant, as if it had never been real. Her entire body convulsed once, then went still.
She couldn't breathe.
Her lungs fought for air that wouldn't come. Her fingers clawed weakly against stone. Cold sweat soaked her skin. Her thoughts scattered like dead leaves in the wind.
She felt… emptied. Not just tired—broken.
And in the silence that followed, something worse crept in.
Laughter.
Mocking. Cold. Deliberate. Too human to be safe.
Footsteps echoed.
Lysandra stepped into the ruined chamber as if strolling through a garden. Her robes, black as oil and stitched with silver thread, flowed behind her untouched by the destruction. She didn't look surprised. She looked… pleased.
"So this is it?" she said, voice soft and venomous. "This is the girl the Hall fears? The girl cloaked in prophecy and trembling power?"
She crouched beside Aurora, brushing aside a lock of hair.
"I expected more."
Aurora tried to speak. Tried to fight. But her strength had left her.
Lysandra's hand hovered above her chest. Shadowy tendrils spilled out like ink underwater, coiling beneath Aurora's body. Then—with no warning—they lifted her.
Aurora gasped.
Her body rose from the floor, limp like a puppet on invisible strings. Weightless. Helpless.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
And then—
The memories began.
---
They hit like shrapnel.
Her childhood. The laughter she wasn't part of.
Her father's long silences. The way he never said goodbye before leaving on work trips.
Her mother's hidden tears. The ones she never asked about.
The best friend who moved away without a single word.
The parties she wasn't invited to. The smiles that faded when she entered the room.
Loneliness. Deep. Rooted. Quiet.
Each moment, insignificant to the world—but to her, they were scars. The kind that didn't bleed. The kind that never healed.
Lysandra's voice coiled through her like smoke.
"You don't even realize, do you?" she murmured. "How much you've already lost. You walk through the world like a shadow, pretending none of it mattered."
"Stop…" Aurora choked out, her voice thin.
But the shadows surged deeper.
"That's where your power lives," Lysandra hissed. "Not in light. Not in fire. In pain. In the hollow places others left behind."
Aurora's scream was raw. Ugly. Real.
"Let me go!"
But Lysandra only smiled.
"You are the storm they tried to cage. And now they'll see what it costs to pretend they could."
Then—
The shadows released her.
She fell.
Not fast—but with that horrible, helpless weight of being discarded.
Thud.
The sound wasn't loud.
But it was final.
The kind of sound you remember years later—not for the noise, but for the silence that followed.
Lysandra melted into the ground like smoke disappearing into cracks.
And Aurora—
She lay there. Curled in on herself. Not dead.
But shattered.
Her fingers twitched, reaching for something—
Or someone.
---
Morning light spilled across the ceiling.
Aurora gasped awake.
She sat bolt upright in bed, breath ragged. Her skin was damp, her limbs trembling. Her chest burned.
It was only after a moment that she recognized her room.
The soft pink walls,fluttering curtain—home.
Not the Hall.
The dream—or vision, or whatever it had been—still clung to her skin like ash.
A figure stirred at the foot of her bed.
Her brother.
He was slumped forward in a chair, one hand loosely holding a damp cloth. The scent of eucalyptus clung to the air.
"You're awake…" he whispered, voice rough with sleep. "Thank God… You scared the hell out of me. You fainted. You were burning up."
She opened her mouth to answer—but no sound came.
She could only nod.
Then—
A faint glow pulsed from her wrist.
The watch.
She looked down. The face shimmered once.
Then came the voice—distant and soft, as if carried on the wind.
"Aurora… are you alright? My powers are sealed. I can't reach you for now. Take care."
Caelum
Her eyes burned.
She turned away.
She didn't answer.
Not this time.
She wasn't ready.
---
That evening…
The fever had broken, but the hollow ache inside hadn't faded.
Aurora sat on the stairs with a steaming cup of bitter tea her mother insisted would help. Mint and medicine. She cradled it like a lifeline, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
Her brother sat across from her in silence. Every now and then, his eyes drifted toward her, worried. But he didn't ask.
She appreciated that more than she could say.
"Did something happen?" her mother asked softly, brushing back her hair.
Aurora hesitated.
A thousand answers clawed at her throat.
But all she said was, "Just tired."
Her mother nodded slowly, but her eyes lingered too long.
She didn't believe it.
And Aurora couldn't blame her.
---
That night…
Silence again.
Everyone else had gone to sleep. The world outside was quiet, as if holding its breath.
Aurora sat in bed, hugging her knees.
The vines. The laughter. The crash. Caelum's hand slipping away.
She couldn't forget.
Her gaze dropped to the watch.
Still. Cold.
But something in her pulsed.
She reached out—
Her fingertip brushed the glass.
Thrum.
A single heartbeat.
A warmth bloomed beneath her skin.
"Aurora…"
Her breath caught.
This time, she didn't pull away.
"I'm here," she whispered.
The light spread gently. Not a blaze—but a quiet flame.
And then—
He was there.
Caelum.
Not surrounded by fire. Not stepping from shadows.
Just there.
His presence was quieter. Calmer.
But his eyes—
They still burned like dusk.
"You came," she whispered.
"I was sealed," he said. "But when you returned… the Hall unbound me."
She swallowed. "Why?"
He met her eyes. "Because of what you survived."
She looked away. "You didn't follow me when I ran."
"No," he said. "But I watched. I waited. I remembered what you said."
Aurora nodded slowly. "I had to go. She… Lysandra… she threatened my family."
"I know."He said instantly.
"I thought I was strong," she whispered. "But I broke."
"You didn't," Caelum said. "You bent. You bled. You screamed. But you didn't break."
"I felt like I became her," she admitted. "I felt like something inside me... snapped."
Caelum stepped closer.
"You didn't become her," he said. "You touched something she once had—but you used it to protect."
She looked up at him.
"I'm not ready for this."
He nodded. "Then take your time. But I'll still be here."
She reached for him.
Their fingers touched. Just barely.
Warmth spread through her hand.
"I'm not running anymore," she said.
"And I'll be here every time you call."He said looking at her eyes.
She looked at the watch.
Its glow dimmed to a soft pulse.
But Caelum stayed.
And long after her eyes closed—He was still there.
Not just her guardian.
But something more.
A presence she had once feared, now quietly constant.
Not a promise spoken, but one kept in silence.
And she—
No longer the girl who ran.
But the spark that would burn through everything they thought they understood.
Aurora's voice trembled, but she didn't look away.
"I want to know you.
The real you.
Not the one with fire in his hands.
Not the one the Hall fears.
Not the one who saves me and disappears.
Just… you."
For a moment, it felt like the world stopped breathing.
Caelum stared at her—stunned, almost confused. Like no one had ever asked that question before. Like he didn't know how to answer it.
And then he smiled.
But it was a broken thing.
"There's nothing to know," he said softly. "Eldridge Hall… that's all there is. It's where I was made. Where I'll probably end."
He glanced away, toward the shadowed corner of the room, where the light didn't reach.
"I don't have anyone else. My parents died when I was eight. The Hall took me in—not because they cared. Because they saw what I could do."
He let out a dry, breathless laugh.
"I'm not someone people get close to. I'm someone they use. Or avoid."
He looked back at her then, eyes too calm to hide how tired they were.
"I guess I was born to be lonely."
The words fell like a blade.
Meant to sound light. But they weren't. Not even close.
Something inside Aurora crumbled.
She couldn't stop the sting behind her eyes, the sudden tightness in her throat. Her heart screamed that no one—no one—should say those words like they meant them.
Without a thought, she threw off the blanket and ran to him.
She didn't speak. Didn't ask.
She just held him.
Wrapped her arms around him like she could hold the shattered pieces of his past together with her own heartbeat.
Caelum stiffened in surprise. Every part of him tensed, as if he didn't know what to do with something so simple. So gentle.
And then—
His arms came around her. Slowly. Carefully.
Not like someone confident in comfort—
but like someone who had only ever watched it from a distance.
His breath caught at her shoulder.
She held him tighter.
And for that moment—
There was no fire. No fear. No Hall. No danger.
Just two people.
One who had lost everything and learned to live with nothing.
And one who had finally found something worth breaking for.
After a while…
The silence settled, softer now. Not empty—just full of unsaid things.
Aurora sat cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her gaze drifting to the floor. Caelum had moved to the study chair in the corner, knees drawn slightly in, one hand loosely resting against his temple.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint moonlight threading through the curtains. Still, neither of them reached for the light.
And then, softly, she spoke.
"I have people who care about me," she said, almost too quietly. "But that doesn't mean I've never felt… out of place."
She drew her knees closer, as if the words came from a deeper place than she meant to show.
"Sometimes the world gives you silence where there should've been answers. Sometimes it feels like you're just… filling a space someone else left behind."
Caelum didn't speak. But his stillness said he was listening.
"I've never gone through what you have," she continued. "But I know what it's like to carry questions you don't know how to ask. To be surrounded by warmth and still feel cold inside."
Her voice cracked faintly, but she kept going.
"It doesn't make you weak. It just means you're human."
She finally looked up at him.
"You weren't born to be lonely, Caelum. I don't believe that. I think you just… learned it too young."
He didn't reply right away. His face was unreadable—but something in his eyes shifted. As if her words had reached the part of him even fire couldn't warm.
And then—
He whispered, "You're not alone anymore."
Aurora's breath caught.
She reached across the space between them, her hand finding his—not in desperation this time, but something steadier.
A promise.
A choice.