The day drags on with a heavy, almost tangible tension in the air. The lavender bouquet still sits on the table, delicate and fragrant, and the candle flickers softly as if mocking the fear coiling in my chest. I can't focus on anything else. Every creak of the house, every whisper of the wind feels amplified, as if the walls themselves are listening.
Lorean tries to distract herself with a sketchbook, drawing simple flowers and birds, but her eyes keep drifting toward me, full of worry. I don't blame her. I feel the weight of this power pressing on us both, a quiet, insistent reminder that we are not safe.
I return to the notebook several times, testing its limits. I create small things—a fresh loaf of bread, a single cup of tea, a small wooden bird that flutters briefly before settling on the counter. Each time, it works. The air hums, the pages glow faintly, and my chest pounds with the thrill of it.
But then something changes.
I write:
A small bird lands on the windowsill.
At first, everything seems fine. The bird appears, soft-feathered and bright-eyed. But then it flutters its wings erratically, knocking over a cup of water. The splash lands across the notebook, and for the briefest moment, I think it's ruined.
The bird chirps sharply, wings beating faster and faster. Its eyes grow wild, frantic. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanishes—leaving behind a faint scorch mark on the windowsill.
I freeze.
"That… wasn't supposed to happen," I whisper.
Lorean leans closer, voice trembling. "Wren… maybe… maybe it's dangerous?"
"I know," I admit, voice tight. "I can feel it. It's like… every time I write something, the world shifts—but not always how I want it to."
I pick up the notebook, flipping through the pages. The words glow faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. It is alive. Responsive. But unpredictable.
And then the thought hits me:
This isn't just a tool. It's a living thing. It reacts.
Later that evening, the shadows in the house feel heavier. I notice them stretching differently, darker in corners where light should reach. Lorean keeps close to me, whispering about noises she hears, things moving in the hallways.
I try to reassure her, but my own heartbeat rattles with unease.
And then I hear it.
A soft, deliberate tap at the window.
I freeze. The notebook hums faintly in my bag.
Lorean clutches my sleeve. "Wren… did you hear that?"
I nod. Slowly, carefully, I move to the window. Outside, nothing is there. No one. Only the empty street bathed in moonlight.
And then a shadow flickers across the wall—the outline of a figure watching us from the alley beyond our house.
I step back, heart hammering. The man. He's here. He's close.
Lorean whispers, barely audible: "He knows… he knows we have it."
I swallow hard, gripping the notebook. The knowledge hits me like ice in my veins: the more I use it, the more he can sense it.
And the more he will come.
That night, I can't sleep. I lie in bed, the notebook on my chest, feeling its pulse. My mind races with possibilities—small tests, careful words, ways to find my parents. But each thought is shadowed by the presence outside.
I realize, for the first time, that creating is not enough. We need protection. We need understanding.
Because the man isn't just a threat. He's a predator who already knows what he wants: the notebook, the other book, the power we barely understand.
And if he gets it first…
I don't even want to imagine the consequences.
Morning comes.
The air smells of rain, damp and clean. I glance at the notebook and feel the pull again, insistent. My fingers itch to write, to test, to experiment. But now I hesitate. Every creation comes with risk. Every word might draw him closer.
I make a choice.
I will write, but carefully. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Because the first creation taught me something important: magic is alive. It listens. It reacts. And it never forgets.
Lorean stirs beside me, rubbing her eyes. "Wren… you're still awake?"
"Yes," I whisper. "I need to be careful today."
Her small hand finds mine. "I'll help. Whatever it is."
And I realize that even if the notebook is powerful, even if it can bend reality… I am not alone.
We have each other.
And for now, that is enough.
But somewhere in the dark, beyond the walls, the man waits. Patient. Watching. Waiting for the moment I make a mistake.
Because he knows I will.
And when I do… he will strike.