The second time I wake, it's not gentle.
There's no dream-laced haze or warm flickers of memory. Just the sharp, sudden awareness of absence.
The chair beside my bed is empty.
No shadows. No arms folded across his chest. No lazy smirk. No Caelen.
The blanket rustles as I shift, biting down a groan as the movement tugs at the bandages wrapped tight around my ribs. It still hurts—but it's a clean hurt now. No longer the searing tear of panic and blood loss. Just the ache of survival.
I blink against the soft light, already knowing.
He's gone.
And it's stupid, how that realization hits harder than it should.
He stayed. He sat here—hours, maybe more—long after the others had left. His voice was the first thing I heard in that fog between waking and sleep. And now…
Gone.
Of course he is.
I sit up slowly, breath shallow, and glance toward the far end of the infirmary.
That's when I see them.
Fynn stands near the doorway, half-turned toward the Healer on duty. He's speaking low and fast, fingers twitching at his sides like he can't quite decide whether he's angry or anxious. Probably both.
"—you should've woken me if she stirred," he's saying, brows drawn. "You said she'd be out for another few hours—"
"She was," the nurse replies, not unkindly. "Bodies don't always follow predictions, Mr. Pierce. And she seems stable now."
"She nearly died," Fynn snaps, too sharply. "I think that earns a little more warning."
"I told you she'd be fine." The Healer's tone shifts—cooler now. "Go back and sit down before you cause another injury."
Fynn exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and turns.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The room hangs still, like it's holding its breath again—like the Veil never quite let go of us.
Then he's striding toward me.
"You're awake." Relief floods his voice, cracking around the edges like something too tightly held. "Are you okay? Are you—Elena, you look—shit, are you in pain?"
I blink, startled. "Fynn. I'm—fine. Just sore."
"You're sure?" His eyes scan me, hands hovering near but not touching. "They said the wound missed anything vital, but you were unconscious for too long. And your pulse was all over the place and—"
"I'm okay," I interrupt, softer this time.
He finally exhales.
"You scared the hell out of us."
"I scared myself," I mutter, and something flickers in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
Then his gaze flicks to the empty chair.
His shoulders shift.
"Caelen was here," I say before I can stop myself.
"I know," Fynn replies. "He didn't leave until an hour ago."
I nod slowly. Swallow hard. "Did he… say anything?"
Fynn's jaw ticks. "Not much. Just… that you were strong. And that he'd see you again soon."
That shouldn't mean anything.
But it does.
My fingers curl against the sheets. I don't know what I expected—what I wanted—but something about the space he left behind feels louder than it should.
"Figures," I say, forcing a half-laugh. "Shows up, makes everything dramatic, then disappears before I wake up."
Fynn watches me for a second too long.
"Elena," he says, quieter now, "he didn't mean to leave like that. He just got called away—command wanted to check something about his team's performance in the maze. You know how they are."
I blink.
"Why are you telling me that?"
He shrugs, but there's a strange sort of tension in his posture now. "Because I figured you'd want the truth. He didn't just walk out."
The words settle uncomfortably between us.
I glance away.
So does he.
After a beat, he clears his throat and gestures toward the corner table where a wrapped package sits.
"I brought you something from the mess hall. The nurse said you'd wake up hungry."
"You know me so well," I say dryly, reaching for it.
He grins, then—genuine and warm. "Someone has to."
And for a moment, I let myself smile back.
But still, in the corner of my mind—behind the pulse of pain and the rustle of crisp infirmary sheets—I hear the echo of a voice I shouldn't miss.
Sleep well, Starlight.
And I wonder where he is now.
The halls are quieter today. Or maybe it's just me—slower, softer. The chaos of the Ember Trials has dulled to a hum in the distance, and for once, I don't feel the need to chase it. My injury has healed enough for me to walk about the corridors of Ashspire.
I walk without a destination, fingers trailing the cool stone of the walls as I pass. Light from the stained glass windows paints shifting colors on the floor—blues, golds, and deep ember-reds that flicker like firelight.
I don't mean to end up on the spiral stairs. But when I see them, I don't hesitate.
This time, I didn't count the steps. I let them carry me upward, the way rivers know how to find the sea.
The door at the top greets me like an old friend—still cracked open, still humming with warmth.
Inside, the Skyglass Dome is just as I left it. Maybe more so.
Sunlight spills through the crystalline panes above, catching on floating feathers and sparks of magic. Ashveil is here, resting atop her high perch, wings folded in quiet elegance. She sees me and doesn't move, but I feel her gaze settle like a blanket over my shoulders—steady, warm, watchful.
Lumi's nest glows faintly near the center, the silverwoven branches now tangled with charms and bits of soft moss I don't remember placing. The chick snoozes soundly, one wing draped over its beak.
I breathe in the scent of smoke and honey. The dome hums around me, alive and ancient.
This place knows me.
I step toward the center again, but not to the raised platform this time. My gaze catches on something I missed before—a thin seam in the mosaic floor, subtle and purposeful. A hidden panel. I crouch, tracing the pattern until my fingers find the edge.
It clicks under my touch.
A section of the floor folds open with a whisper, revealing a shallow recess. Inside: a book, bound in cracked leather that shimmers faintly with runes. No title. Just a mark on the front—the same Wyrdmark etched into the stone beneath Ashveils perch.
My hands shake slightly as I lift it.
The moment I touch the cover, a pulse shoots up my arm. Not painful. More like… recognition.
Ashveil shifts above, watching silently.
I carry the book to the edge of the dome, settling near the arched window. The leather creaks as I open it—and stop.
The first page holds a sketch. Not just any sketch.
It's a girl. Younger than me. Her face is sharp, eyes bright, hair braided with feathers. She's standing in this very dome, a phoenix perched on her shoulder.
Beneath it, a name: Serenya Vael.
And beneath that: First Wyrdcaller of Flame and Feather.
My breath catches. Vael. My family name.
I flip the page. More sketches, more names. Generations of them. Some with birds I recognize—stormcrows, duskfinches, skyflames. Others with creatures I've never seen before, all radiant, all rare. All bonded.
All Wyrdcallers.
My fingers trace the lineage. I don't recognize all the names, but some whisper through old memories—stories half-told, lullabies my grandmother sang, a strange warmth in my bones when lightning split the sky.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This wasn't new.
I am not the first.
The realization settles in my chest like fire finding kindling.
The Wyrdcall didn't come to me.
It came back.
Ashveil stirs above, then glides down in a soft arc, landing beside me with barely a sound. Her feathers glow with faint heat, eyes meeting mine with solemn pride.
"You remember," I whisper.
She nods, slow and regal. "I always did."
I glance back at the book, heart thundering in my ribs. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because forgetting was safer than remembering." Her voice settles in my mind like silk, ancient and sad. "The world grew afraid of what it couldn't shape."
I close the book gently, pressing it to my chest. "But it's part of me."
"It always was."
Lumi stirs in the nest nearby, blinking sleepily. "You found the echoes," the chick mumbles.
I smile faintly. "More than that."
Outside the dome, the sky shifts—sunlight casting long shadows across the Aviary. Somewhere far below, students train, spells spark, destinies unravel.
But here, in this place above the world, something deeper hums.
I am not just a student. Not just a wielder.
I am the echo of those who sang before fire had a name.
And now…
I remember the song.
The corridors feel different after everything—quieter, like the stone is still listening. The echoes of the past still cling to me, clinging to my skin, my breath, the way the book presses against my side.
I don't expect to see him.
But when I turn the corner near the overlook stairs, he's there—leaning against the railing like he's waiting for a storm to pass. Or maybe for me.
"Didn't take you for the dramatic rooftop escape type," Caelen says, not looking at me.
I stop a few steps away. "I wasn't escaping."
He glances over. His eyes flick to the book in my arms, then back to my face. "Looks heavy. Dangerous, maybe."
"History," I say. "Family."
He nods once, like that makes sense. Like it answers a question he wasn't sure he'd asked.
For a second, silence stretches between us—thin but taut.
"You look better," he says eventually.
"You're pretending again."
A beat.
He doesn't answer right away. Just exhales slowly through his nose and shifts his weight, fingers drumming once against the railing.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
His eyes finally meet mine—and this time, there's no shield. No smirk. Just a flash of something real, raw, quickly buried again.
"I meant what I said," I told him, quietly. "Thank you. For staying."
Caelen looks away. "You were out of it."
"That doesn't mean it wasn't real."
He shakes his head, almost like he's laughing at himself. "You don't get it. I didn't stay because I'm a good person. I stayed because I couldn't walk away."
"I know," I say.
His gaze snaps back to me, surprised.
And for a moment, it's all there again—what we didn't say in the infirmary. What hung in the air like smoke.
But then, he pulls back. Retreats into something safer.
"You're awake now," he says, voice lighter. "So no need for whispered confessions and bedside dramatics."
"Right," I say. "Back to normal."
He nods, stepping past me.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he pauses. Digs into his coat pocket and pulls something out—wrapped in parchment and slightly crumpled.
"I, uh—brought this earlier. Samora said you'd like it."
He hands it over without meeting my eyes.
A fig tart. Still warm.
I take it without a word.
Caelen's already walking away when I say, "You called me Starlight."
He stops.
Doesn't turn around. Just stand there.
Long enough that I wonder if he'll answer at all.
Then:
"Don't let it go to your head."
And he disappears around the corner.