Chapter Forty
Silent Knocks
fromHave You Someone to Protect?
by ©Amer
Silas hadn't meant to hold her hand for as long as he did. It was soft—softer than memory allowed—and warm like a moment pulled from a dream. A part of him feared she'd pull away immediately. But she didn't.
Not right away.
Her fingers lingered just long enough to make him feel, absurdly, as if time had forgiven him.
Then, gently, she withdrew.
Lhady drew a steady breath, violet eyes flicking up to meet his before drifting past his shoulder, toward the world outside. Evening had nearly settled; the light behind him was fading fast, the sky surrendering quietly to dusk.
She gave a small nod.
It was permission.
And it was witnessed.
Elias sat at the table not far from the door, one arm folded across his chest, the other draped loosely over the back of his chair. Though his posture was casual, his gaze was anything but. It tracked every motion, every breath, like a blade half-unsheathed.
Silence stretched—taut, restrained by old wounds and words never spoken.
Then Elias cut through it, his voice dry, a flicker of mischief softening the air. "If it's Caelum, he won't need to knock, Lhady. You know that."
The tension loosened—slightly. Not vanished, but thinned enough to breathe.
Silas stood motionless for a moment longer, unsure whether to speak, apologize, or step back entirely. His chest ached with the fragile pressure of memories surfacing too quickly.
"You should come in," Lhady said softly.
"Thank you."
He stepped over the threshold like a man returning to a house he'd once loved in another life. The scent of the bookshop—ink, paper, wood, and time—welcomed him like a familiar song.
Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.
His eyes drifted instinctively across the shelves, mapping them to memory. Then he saw it—in the far corner, on a small table beside an old ledger. A simple frame.
Inside it, pressed and slightly faded, was a yellow flower.
His breath caught.
He remembered giving it to her. Long ago, some awkward summer. A clumsy gift, too much meaning folded into a quiet gesture. One she had never discarded.
"What would you like to drink?" Lhady asked, her tone intentionally light. Already, she was walking toward the kitchen.
"Anything," Silas replied, the word tasting hollow, though it was all he could offer.
The sound of her footsteps faded behind the doorway.
Elias spoke once the silence settled again. "You always seem to know when to arrive," he said, voice smooth but not unkind. "Right when the other man isn't around."
Silas didn't bristle. "Caelum came to the inn. I wasn't there. Malric said he left a message. I thought it might be important… so I came here."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "And by sheer coincidence, she answered the door instead."
Silas looked away. "It wasn't planned."
"But convenient," Elias said. "You took the moment. That's something."
The clink of porcelain announced Lhady's return. She carried a tray with a small teapot, three cups, and a modest plate of dried fruit and biscuits. She set it down on the low table with the same quiet grace she'd always had.
"Sit wherever you like," she said. "You know this house."
The words weren't cold. But they weren't warm either.
You used to belong here. Find your place, if you still can.
Silas chose a spot near the shelf, where a lamp cast golden light across old bindings. He didn't touch the tea.
Elias stood.
"If I'm in the way," he offered, his gaze flicking to Lhady, "I can go."
"It's fine if you stay," she said, already pouring the tea. "We're just going to talk."
Elias hesitated—but didn't sit. He nodded once, to himself.
"Then I'll leave you both alone," he said, quieter now. "Consider it my thanks."
Silas blinked. "Thanks?"
Elias met his eyes with deliberate calm. "For standing at the river's edge when she couldn't. For staying until someone else came. You know what I mean."
Silas didn't answer.
Lhady didn't look up.
Elias walked to the door. His hand lingered on the knob. Then—
"She doesn't need someone who knocks," he said without turning. "But maybe… she still opens the door anyway."
And then he was gone.
Far From Solara
Caelum was farther from Solara than he had been in years. The moon rode high, pale and watchful, casting its light like a silent witness over the pathless wild.
There was no road here. No signpost or landmark. Just a narrow cut between ancient stones and the hush of trees heavy with old magic.
Hidden behind a ridge of moss-dark rock, the cave appeared only to those who knew to look.
Caelum ducked inside. No torch. He didn't need one.
The walls were carved with age-old sigils—runes drawn in shapes that memory itself had tried to forget. Near the back wall, relics were arranged in a quiet circle: shards of enchanted glass, bone-carved tokens, a child's bell frozen mid-ring.
And there, framed in brass and black iron, stood a mirror nearly his height. Its surface was clouded. Waiting.
Caelum stepped forward. From beneath his cloak, he drew a blade—the one bound by vow and spell. It shimmered faintly even in the dark, humming with locked magic.
He drove it into the earth.
Golden light burst outward. Glyphs lit up beneath the stone, etched by unseen hands. Threads of energy coiled toward the mirror's edge, binding light to frame.
The glass flickered—once, twice—then stilled.
And a face appeared.
Not clearly at first. But the outline grew steady: a girl, her hair falling across one eye, cloak pinned by a brooch shaped like an arrow.
She smiled when she saw him—too quickly. And for a breath too long.
But Caelum didn't seem to notice.
"Took you long enough."
"I walked," Caelum said dryly. "Not all of us summon hawks for errands, Zeina."
She laughed. Familiar. Grounding.
"You look tired," she said. "Let me guess—she's awakening."
He didn't answer right away.
"Lhady's power is shifting. Faster than we expected. What happened at the river wasn't just recklessness. It was a surge. A real one."
Zeina's smile vanished. "Then it's time. I want to come to Solara. Soon. I can help—quietly. I won't interfere. Just… as a comrade."
He hesitated.
"You disapprove," she said.
"I don't want her confused. Or frightened," Caelum murmured. "She's still learning. She needs clarity, not more shadows."
Zeina's gaze softened. "I would never hurt her."
"I know," he said. "But even allies cast shadows when they stand too close to someone just beginning to see."
Silence stretched.
Then his tone shifted, urgent.
"I saw something. When we opened the chest at the shop. An illusion. A memory—maybe. But it wasn't mine. Not entirely."
Zeina's expression darkened. "How strong was it?"
"Strong enough to feel like grief. Not mine. But near."
"There are relics that hold memories," she said. "Especially those tied to enchantments. Or… death. You'd need to find one and test it."
"Where?"
"There's a place. A tavern, east of the border forests. Not marked. Protected by old wards. They collect objects with imprints—books, charms, broken weapons. It's real."
"How long to reach it?"
"Half a month, at least."
He didn't reply. His silence said enough.
"You're not going."
"Not yet," Caelum said. "The full moon is near. I need to stay close. With her."
Zeina nodded. "Then after."
The mirror began to dim. Her form blurred at the edges.
"I'll wait for your signal," she said. "And Caelum—"
He looked up.
"Don't take too long. Memories don't always wait to be remembered."
Her image flickered. "Goodnight."
Then she was gone.
Caelum knelt, withdrew the dagger, and sheathed it. The light vanished with a final pulse.
Outside, the moonlight touched the trees like a whispered promise.
He looked back in the direction of Solara—the bookshop, the window, the quiet girl with the waiting eyes.
He thought of her.
And a part of him felt… seen.
In the bookshop, Lhady sat near the window. Her teacup sat untouched.
She stared out into the night, lips parted, as if expecting someone who had not yet arrived.
Across from her, Silas sat still.
He didn't speak.
He only watched her.
And between them, silence reigned once more.