The day drags itself along the edges of the afternoon, each minute thick with the memory of the stranger outside. Lorean and I move quietly through the house, our steps soft against the floorboards. The notebook lies on the kitchen table, its leather cover warm to the touch, as if it has its own heartbeat.
Every sound outside—the distant clip of horse hooves, the murmured voices of townspeople, even the wind brushing against the shutters—makes my skin prickle.
I keep expecting him to appear again.
The man from the Market Square.
The one who is already watching.
I glance at Lorean, who is perched on the edge of a chair, knees tucked to her chest. Her eyes are wide, and her hands twist the hem of her sweater into knots.
"We should move it," she whispers.
"Move what?" I ask, though I know the answer before she says it.
"The notebook. We can't leave it here."
I bite my lip, glancing down at it. Even as I reach for it, a strange warmth radiates through my hands. Almost like a pulse, faint and insistent.
I nod slowly. "Okay. But we need somewhere safe… hidden. Somewhere it won't be found."
The attic comes to mind immediately. It's cramped, dusty, hard to reach without being obvious. But it will have to do.
We lift the notebook together, and I feel its weight in my hands. It isn't heavy, yet every fiber of me feels it. Like it knows it's alive.
I tuck it beneath a blanket in the corner of the attic, pushing aside boxes of old clothes and forgotten trunks until it is completely concealed.
"There," I whisper. "Safe. For now."
Lorean swallows hard. "Do you think he can find it anyway?"
I don't answer immediately. Because deep down, I know the truth: someone who has already sensed its power wouldn't need directions to find it.
"They'll come," I admit finally. "We just have to be ready."
The house settles around us, creaking in the quiet. Shadows stretch across the walls, elongated by the fading afternoon light. And for the first time, I feel the truth that Aldren had warned me about: the notebook isn't just a tool. It's a signal. A beacon.
And anyone with darkness in their heart can feel it.
Night falls quickly.
We sit together in the kitchen, the apple from the morning still untouched. Its skin glistens faintly in the lamplight, too perfect to be real. Lorean pokes at it nervously with a fork.
"I can't believe this is happening," she whispers.
"Neither can I," I admit. My fingers trace the edge of the notebook's hiding place in the attic, imagining the way its pages responded to my writing earlier.
And then I remember something Aldren said.
The books can only be held by the heirs of the family. Anyone else will bring ruin.
I shiver.
Because I know already: this is bigger than an apple.
This is bigger than any ordinary magic.
This is a war.
Later that night, I can't sleep.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Lorean is curled up beside me, asleep, but even her breathing seems cautious. My mind keeps replaying the events of the day—the old man in the square, the first word I wrote, the apple appearing from nothing.
And then the thought hits me, sharp and cold:
What if using the notebook doesn't just create things?
I sit up. The mattress creaks under me. I trace the air with trembling fingers as if I can touch the notebook from here.
Every creation has a cost.
Magic is never free.
Power is never neutral.
And I wonder, for the first time, what it will take to bring my parents back.
A sound from the street below jolts me upright.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
I press my ear to the window.
Someone is walking past the house.
Not the familiar footfalls of neighbors returning from the market.
Not the shuffle of townspeople.
Someone else.
I can't see clearly through the shadows, but I feel the weight of their presence. A cold, watching presence.
I hold my breath.
And then, barely audible, a whisper reaches me from the darkness:
"The ledger has awakened."
It isn't the wind.
It isn't a dream.
It is him.
Somewhere below, someone knows.
And the game has begun.
The night stretches endlessly after that.
I lie awake, hands clutching the thin blanket around my shoulders, thinking of Aldren's warning.
You must find the Ledger before he does.
I close my eyes and see it—not the notebook itself, but the world I could create with it.
A world where my parents are safe.
Where Lorean doesn't have to bear this weight.
Where everything lost can be found again.
And then I realize:
I am already halfway there.
Because once the notebook responds to words…
There's no going back.