Return at once

The rain had lessened by the time they staggered back to the academy gates, but the night still pressed heavy against the towers. Torchlight flickered along the stone walls, reflected in shallow pools gathered on the steps. 

Professors waited there, faces hard and watchful. The Headmaster himself stood at their center, his silver hair plastered against his forehead, his staff gleaming faint blue from runes carved deep into the wood.

“Explain,” he said, voice sharp as a blade.

Lucien swayed on his feet. His hair clung damp to his temples, eyes shadowed but steady. Cael stepped forward before he could speak, squaring his shoulders though exhaustion weighed every muscle.

“We found him,” Cael said, tone flat, carefully controlled. “Deep in the western ruins. Traces of old magic… wards, fragments. It looked like he’d been trapped there.”

The Headmaster’s gaze narrowed. “Trapped? By whom?”

Cael’s throat tightened. He felt Lucien shift beside him, as if ready to speak, but Cael cut in. “The wards were old. Dangerous. Whatever it was, it wasn’t recent. Perhaps a leftover snare from the War.”

The lie tasted bitter, but they had rehearsed it—Lucien had insisted.

Mistress Veyra’s eyes narrowed, her voice soft and dangerous. “And yet none of our patrols saw him. None of the wards registered. Strange, isn’t it?”

Lucien’s smile was faint but unshaken. “Perhaps they weren’t meant to. If you’d seen what Cael and I saw, you would know—those ruins don’t belong to any map.”

The professors shifted uneasily. The storm hissed against the courtyard stone. Suspicion hung heavy, but no one pressed further. Not yet.

The Headmaster studied them both in silence, then inclined his head slowly. “Very well. But understand this—truth always leaves its trail. And I will find it, wherever it leads.”

His staff struck stone once. Dismissal.

Lucien dipped his head. Cael forced himself to do the same. Together, they passed the professors’ sharp gazes, each step like dragging chains.

---

The summons came the yesterday.

A letter sealed in deep blue wax, stamped with the crest of Lucien’s house. His parents had heard. The rumors of his disappearance, the whispers of abduction, had traveled faster than the storm ever could. Their words were polite on the page, but underneath burned sharp command: Return at once.

And so the carriage was prepared. The estate demanded its heir.

Cael climbed in after Lucien, settling into the cushioned seat across from him. Arian followed last, expression a mix of worry and irritation, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. The carriage lurched forward, wheels creaking on the damp road. 

After the exhausting period of all sorts of think they're on leave. Everyone will be on their leave a week later.

For a long time, no one spoke. Only the rhythm of hooves, the creak of wood, the muffled hiss of rain through trees.

Cael stared at the floorboards, hands tight in his lap. His chest still ached with the weight of the secret. It pressed against his ribs like a blade turned inward. He should keep it buried. He had to.

But then Lucien’s voice cut the silence. Calm, steady. “Cael. Tell him.”

Cael’s head jerked up. “Lucien—”

“He deserves to know.”

Arian frowned between them. “Know what?”

Cael’s mouth went dry. He shook his head. “It’s… not something I—”

Lucien’s gaze held his. Not harsh, not demanding—simply certain. “You’ve carried this alone long enough.”

Cael’s throat burned. He looked away, out the window, watching wet fields blur past. “If I tell him… everything changes.”

“Everything already has,” Lucien said softly.

Silence. The carriage wheels rattled over a stone. Arian’s frown deepened. “You’re both talking like you’re hiding a corpse under the seat. Just spit it out already.”

The words burst from Cael before he could stop them. Low, hoarse, each one tearing free like a wound reopening.

“I wrote this world.”

The carriage lurched as the driver steered around a rut. Inside, silence slammed down like thunder.

Arian blinked once. Then again. “You… what?”

Cael’s hands shook in his lap. “Every page. Every name. Every place. You. Lucien. All of it. I wrote it.”

Arian’s mouth opened, shut, opened again. His face twisted in disbelief, then anger. “You think that’s funny?”

“I don’t.” Cael’s voice cracked. “Do you think I wanted this? To watch him die over and over again?” His eyes burned, his breath ragged. “Do you know what it’s like to kill yourself hundreds of times, just to try and change one line? To save someone who’s destined to—” He cut himself off, chest heaving.

The silence stretched, sharp and suffocating.

Lucien’s hand settled lightly on Cael’s shoulder. “It’s true. He’s not lying.”

Arian’s hands curled into fists on his knees. Anger trembled through his jaw, but no words came. For a long moment, only the wheels filled the silence.

Finally, Arian let out a harsh breath and leaned back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. “If it were anyone else, I’d call them insane.” His voice was low, tight. “But you… I’ve seen the way you fight like a man who’s already lost. The way you look at him.” His eyes flicked toward Lucien. Then he shut them again.

“I want to punch you,” he muttered.

Cael gave a broken laugh, hollow and raw. “Do it. Maybe it’ll help.”

Arian shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Because if you’ve done all that—if you’ve already bled yourself to the bone for him—what the hell is left for me to say?”

The silence after that was different. Not acceptance. Not forgiveness. But the fragile thread of something that might become either.

Lucien’s hand tightened on Cael’s shoulder. His eyes, when Cael dared to meet them, were steady. “See? You’re not alone anymore.”

---

By nightfall, the carriage stopped in a village along the road. Lanterns glowed soft gold against the damp, thatched roofs. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the faint scent of stew and hearthfire.

They lodged at an inn near the square, the kind built from heavy timber and worn stone, where travelers’ voices carried low over tankards of ale.

For the first time in days, the storm had broken. Stars pricked faintly through ragged clouds.

Lucien excused himself early, retreating upstairs. Arian muttered something about food and disappeared toward the tavern hall. Cael lingered outside, leaning against the carriage, watching mist curl along the cobbled street. His body ached, but the silence pressed heavier.

Then—flutter.

A pale shape dipped from the night sky. A bird, feathers white as ash, wings whispering against the dark. It landed on the carriage rail, head cocked, black eyes bright.

Cael frowned. “You’re far from home, aren’t you?”

The bird shifted, then lifted its leg. A scrap of parchment was tied there with black thread.

Cael’s stomach dropped. Slowly, he untied it, unrolled the scrap. The ink bled faintly against the damp, the letters sharp, cold.

“...Be safe.”

[System Notice: Variable containment failed.]

[Correction Protocol escalating.]

[Next Event: Interference imminent. Danger ahead.]

Cael’s breath caught. The bird blinked, then launched into the sky, wings vanishing into the mist.

Behind him, the inn’s lanterns glowed warm against the night. Inside, Lucien slept upstairs, Arian argued with the innkeeper, life went on.

But the scrap of parchment trembled in Cael’s hands, and the words burned brighter with every heartbeat.

Interference imminent. Danger ahead.

---

And Cael knew—this was no reprieve. This was only the eye of the storm.

[Thank you for your patience reading this story.]