Who's there?

The evening sky burned amber and rose as Rowan found him near the dormitory archway. Lucien’s shoulders were stiff, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his cloak, eyes fixed on the courtyard stones as if their cracks held secrets. He had known this conversation was coming, yet a part of him had hoped Rowan might change his mind, might stay, might—

“You’re really going,” Lucien said, the words sharper than he intended.

Rowan’s gaze met his, steady as always, and something in that look made Lucien’s stomach twist. “I have to,” he said. “The traces lead west. If Arian’s trail continues anywhere, that’s where it will be.”

Lucien shook his head. “Then let me come with you. I can’t just stay here while he’s out there—”

“Lucien.” Rowan’s voice was calm but unyielding, the kind that could cut through frustration and leave only truth. 

“His sister has already left the academy. She told me to tell you—stay. Focus on your studies. If they need you, you will be called. Until then, someone must remain. If Arian somehow reaches the academy, he must find someone waiting who trusts him.”

Lucien’s chest tightened, a sting he had not expected. “So I’m to do nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Rowan said softly. “You’ll be ready. That alone matters.”

He wanted to argue, to insist, to fight against the inevitability in Rowan’s voice. But it was useless. Rowan’s eyes, once full of boyish warmth, now carried the gravity of someone who had seen the world’s sharp edges. He adjusted his pack and laid a hand lightly on Lucien’s shoulder—a gesture brief, fleeting, but heavier than words. 

“I know what he means to you. I know what he means to me. But trust this plan. His sister is already ahead of us. Scattering blindly will achieve nothing.”

Lucien swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. “Then… go,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter. “And come back safe.”

Rowan gave a small, almost wistful smile. “I will.”

---

By dawn, he was gone. No knocking, no lingering words, no glance over the shoulder. Just absence. Lucien stared at the empty space where Rowan had stood, the cold sunlight catching the edges of his own grief, sharp and unyielding. He felt as if the world itself had tilted, leaving him stranded.

The day dragged in slow, tedious hours. Lessons passed as if behind fogged glass.

Words reached him, but he could not grasp them. By evening, he could endure it no longer. He returned to his dormitory and sat before the crystal communication device, its surface faintly glowing with arcane light. His fingers hovered, trembling, before he activated the channel.

“Lucien.”

His father’s voice came through, deep and measured. Lucien felt relief and frustration collide in equal measure. “Father,” he said, the word brittle, “about Arian… have they found anything?”

A pause stretched between them, taut and silent. “There are traces,” his father replied finally. “Traces suggesting movement north, but no certainty. We cannot confirm his safety.”

Lucien’s throat constricted. “So… you don’t know if he’s alive.”

“He is strong,” his father said, calm but tired. “And we will find him. You must have faith.”

“But—”

“Lucien.” The voice softened. “I know what you feel. I know how much he matters. But your role now is here. Trust us. Trust that he will return.”

Lucien shut his eyes. Stay. Wait. Endure. Rowan had said the same thing. His father repeated it. He whispered, “Yes, Father,” even though it felt hollow.

The crystal dimmed, leaving the room heavy with silence. Lucien remained still, the quiet pressing against him like stone. And then the ache began.

---

Fragments surfaced unbidden, like shards of a broken mirror.

He remembered laughter—bright and ringing—voices overlapping, the warmth of hands on his shoulder, the steady grip of friends who had sworn never to leave him. Faces blurred, yet familiar. Shadows of those he had loved, comrades and companions who had once made the world feel safe.

And then the puzzle splintered. Laughter twisted into shouting; the smell of smoke burned his nostrils. Faces dissolved into gray shapes; voices became echoes. He reached for them, but they drifted beyond his grasp, slipping through memory like smoke.

Who were they ? Names hung at the edge of his mind, unspoken, unremembered. The harder he tried, the further the fragments scattered.

He saw fleeting glimpses of light against night, steel clashing in the distance, a promise cut off mid-word. Then nothing. Only hollow emptiness where warmth had been.

Pressing his palms over his eyes, Lucien felt the ache in his chest deepen, a grief too old to be his own, yet intimately familiar. He remembered only that he had loved, and that he had lost.

---

The dormitory walls wavered, the familiar stone dissolving for a heartbeat. He was standing elsewhere—rain-slick streets, lanterns guttering, voices calling his name. A sudden memory, half-dream, half-recollection, flashed through him. Names, faces, laughter—gone before they could fully form.

And then, as abruptly as it came, the vision ended. He was back, surrounded by the quiet hum of the crystal and the lingering smell of parchment and stone.

Why now? Why, when Arian was missing, did the past claw its way forward?

Because he remembered, with gut-deep clarity, what it meant to lose those he loved. And he would not—could not—lose another.

“Not again,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Not again. I can’t…”

---

The puzzle pieces hovered at the edges of his mind as he lay awake that night. Faces without names, voices half-remembered, laughter that dissolved into smoke. None of it fit together, yet each carried the weight of loss.

He thought of Arian—the stubborn grin, the infuriating confidence, the boy who anchored him when he felt unsteady. The bond that had grown since childhood. The thought of losing him was unbearable.

Fear gnawed at him, sharp and cold. I won’t let it happen again.

The ceiling rippled with shadow. A whisper brushed the edges of his consciousness, fragile yet insistent:

Lucien…

He sat up sharply, heart hammering. The voice was faint, almost imagined, but it carried the same aching weight as the fragments of memory—the half-formed, half-forgotten remnants of people and places he had once known.

“Who’s there?” he breathed, though the room held only silence.

Yet the echo remained in his bones, a puzzle piece snapping into place while the rest remained scattered.

He pressed a hand over his chest, trembling. If the past was reaching for him, if it was unraveling piece by broken piece, then loss was not finished with him. And neither was fear.

The thought lingered long into the night, until sleep dragged him into a tangled dreamscape where laughter and grief intertwined, where Arian’s face merged with faceless shadows of those he had lost, and where the ache of memory settled over him like a second skin.

And as he drifted, he swore silently: he would not fail again.

•••