The familiar quiet of Nightglen Manor wrapped around Caleb, a reminder of the order and discipline he demanded within its walls. Here, efficiency reigned, and even in the presence of chaos, everything moved with precision. He called for the staff, and his instructions were swift and measured. “Prepare a bath,” he ordered one maid. “Fetch clean clothes suitable for a guest,” to another. The guest room was to be readied without flaw, her belongings arranged with care, and every detail seen too swiftly.

  He stepped back as the maids bustled in; their movements were silent and practised. In his younger years, Caleb might have handled the details himself—perhaps even lingered to ensure every task was perfectly executed. But that was not the Lord of Nightglen he had become. Now, he trusted those under his care to do their work, and they did so with a quiet reverence born of loyalty.

  A knight arrived to carry Celestia, and Caleb watched with a critical eye, hands behind his back. She was lifted carefully, wrapped securely in the blanket—treated not as someone fragile but as the battle-worn fighter she was. He gave a silent nod of approval, his expression neutral except for his tense jaw.

  Alone, the crackle of the hearth filled the silence as he settled into a chair, gaze fixed on the fire. Thoughts raced, yet his expression remained composed. Here, he thrived—in solitude, where his position allowed no hesitation. Yet, Celestia's pale, unmoving form lingered in his mind.

  Minutes passed, and the steady rhythm of the staff’s work reached his ears: the soft rustle of sheets being smoothed, the faint splash of water from the bath, and the quiet murmur of voices coordinating tasks. They moved with an efficiency that matched his expectations, and yet the restless knot in his chest refused to ease.

  When Mrs Thompson entered, her composed demeanour met Caleb’s unwavering gaze. “My Lord,” she said softly, folding her hands neatly before her, “the guest room is prepared, and Lady Celestia is being attended to. You’ve done all you can. Let us take care of the rest.”

  “I’ll rest when she’s stable,” Caleb replied, his tone calm but not unkind.

  Mrs. Thompson’s lips twitched with a faint smile. “She’s in good hands, my Lord. I’ve seen to it personally. You, however, look as though you’re preparing for battle. I’ll bring your dinner shortly—and this time, I expect it to be eaten.” Her voice held just enough firmness to suggest there would be no arguing, and with a small bow, she left.

  Caleb rose after a long moment, following her advice with the same stoic resolve he applied to everything. When he entered the guest room, he noted the details without comment: the fire casting a warm glow across the walls, the pristine arrangement of the blankets, and the still figure resting in the bed. Mrs Thompson had chosen the room nearest his own chambers—an observation he filed away without acknowledgement but appreciated all the same.

  Standing at the edge of the bed, he regarded Celestia in silence. Her breathing had evened out, her face no longer as pale. She had been bathed and dressed in clean clothes; her hair fanned out against the pillow in soft waves. For a moment, Caleb hesitated, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. Then, with the same quiet precision as before, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers steady and impersonal.

  Caleb lingered for a moment longer, his gaze tracing Celestia's soft rise and fall in her breathing. The faint crackle of the fire filled the space, but his thoughts churned in restless silence. Duty called him to the halls beyond, yet an unfamiliar weight held him still—a quiet awareness of her vulnerability and his inexplicable role in her survival.

  Drawing himself upright, Caleb adjusted his coat. The subtle shift in his posture marked the return of the young Lord of Nightglen. With a final glance toward the bed, he turned and exited the guest room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

  The faint hum of energy stirred the air, tugging at the edges of his awareness. It was a familiar signal—a presence both ancient and unwavering. Caleb’s expression tightened as he moved to stand before the guest room door, arms crossed and spine straight. His honey-gold eye flickered toward the corridor, his thoughts steadying as the unmistakable aura of Elysian drew nearer.

  From the shadows at the far end of the hallway, the Archmage emerged, his long dark blue coat flowing with fluid grace. Silver and blue accents shimmered in the dim light, while embedded blue gemstones caught the eye, subtly enhancing the deep hues of his robe. Beneath it, a white high-collared shirt and form-fitting black sleeves added layers of refinement. A silver belt with a blue gem rested at his waist, and a single blue earring gleamed from his left ear. Elysian's silver eyes, sharp and knowing, locked onto Caleb, and the faint crease in his brow was a rare sign of concern. Caleb’s stance remained rigid, his gaze meeting his friend’s approach with guarded anticipation, the weight of the night pressing heavily on them both.

  “Cal?” Elysian called, tilting his head slightly, his voice light yet edged with curiosity. “Or should I say someone who merely looks like Caleb Nightglen? Because the man I know doesn’t spend his evenings brooding outside guest room doors.”

  Caleb’s honey-gold eye cut toward him, sharp and unamused. “Elys, not now.”

  Elysian halted nearby, hands clasped behind him, lips quirking into a teasing smile. "Not now? Classic deflection. But, you had called me my dear friend." he murmured, leaning against the wall. "And your statue impression is so unlike you, I'm tempted to scry for answers. You must see why I'm curious."

  “Then don’t be.” Caleb’s response was curt, though the edge of weariness crept into his voice.

  “Too late.” Elysian’s silver eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained casual. “You can tell me now, or I’ll come to my own conclusions. And you know I’ll make them far more dramatic than they need to be. Something about a noble lady, a forbidden romance...or perhaps a duel over her honour?”

  Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

  “Yes,” Elysian said lightly. “But you love me anyway.” His teasing grin softened slightly, and his voice lowered. “Now, Cal, I’m asking as your friend. What’s going on?”

  Caleb turned to face him now, his jaw tight, his eyepatch catching the dim light fully. “It’s not what you think,” he said, his tone clipped.

  “Oh, of course not, ” Elysian’s silver eyes glimmered with amusement. “But you should know, you’re terrible at hiding it. Whatever it is. Because in the last fifteen years, I don’t recall you ever losing your composure over anyone. And here you are, standing here like a guardian of the realm for someone I haven’t even met.” His silver eyes gleamed with playful curiosity.

  Caleb ruffled his neck hair, muttering under his breath. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?” Elysian’s brow arched. “Cal, you’re a strategist. You don’t do ‘complicated.’ You solve it, dissect it, and move on. So either this someone has singlehandedly broken every rule you live by, or…” He paused, his grin widening. “This someone is special.”

  Caleb glared, his golden eye narrowing. “If you’re done, I have things to attend to.”

  “Oh, I’m not done,” Elysian said, leaning casually against the wall. “I just didn’t expect to find you here, of all places, fretting like a mother hen. It’s...refreshing, in a way.”

  “She’s resting,” Caleb murmured, his voice low and restrained, almost as if he feared the sound might seep through the door. His fingers flexed against his side as though restless for something to do. “I didn’t want to leave.”

  Elysian’s playful expression sobered slightly, his silver eyes searching Caleb’s face. “Oh, it is a SHE! That I would live till the day you would bring a woman home. So does this mean you care about her?”

  Caleb didn’t respond, but the way his jaw tightened and his gaze flicked toward the door was answer enough.

  Elysian pushed off the wall, his grin returning as he clapped a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Well then, my friend, it seems I have much to learn about this enigmatic lady who’s managed to throw the great Caleb Nightglen into such disarray.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Caleb took a long breath, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Just don’t make it worse, Elys.” he rubbed his temples. “She’s… different, Elys. And it’s irritating how much she’s gotten under my skin. In such a short time as well.”

  “You, losing control? That’s unlike you,” Elysian quipped again, though his eyes held genuine concern. “What is it about her, Cal?”

  Caleb took a deep breath, his frustration evident. “I’m used to control, logic, strategy—all of which seem to crumble around her.”

  Elysian placed a hand on Caleb's shoulder, his expression softening. "It's okay to feel out of control sometimes. Emotions are a different battlefield. I've always got your back." Elysian crossed his arms, leaning back as the dim lamps cast shadows across his face. "How long since you've slept properly, Caleb?"

  Caleb huffed, a hint of irritation breaking through the surface. “I’ll sleep when I’ve earned it.”

  “Ah, the classic Caleb Nightglen refrain,” Elysian quipped with a dry smile. Then, softer: “And how exactly do you plan to help her if you can’t even stand upright tomorrow?”

  Caleb’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and defiant, but the weight behind it faltered almost immediately. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further, his shoulders sagging under an invisible burden. “I need to make sense of all this, Elysian. Of… her. Of what she represents. It’s not as simple as you think.”

  Elysian stepped forward, his presence grounding the narrow hallway. "It never is simple, but running yourself down won't give answers. It'll only make the questions harder to bear." His gaze softened, yet his voice carried firm resolve. "Come with me. My study is quieter—not the guest room. You'll think better with some distance."

  Caleb hesitated, his hand hovering near the door as if touching it might anchor him. “I hate that damn study,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

  Elysian smiled faintly, a rare flicker of warmth in his otherwise steady demeanour. “Good. Hate keeps you awake long enough for me to knock some sense into you.” His tone shifted to something gentler. “But you’ll hate it less when you’ve let yourself breathe.”

  After a long pause, Caleb exhaled slowly and nodded, though it was more resignation than agreement. “Just for a moment,” he relented, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

  “That’s all it takes,” Elysian replied, clapping a hand lightly on Caleb’s shoulder and steering him down the hallway. “One moment at a time.”

  ?? ━━━━━━━━ ?????°? ? ?°????? ━━━━━━━━ ??

  Elysian’s study was steeped in quiet stillness, the kind that allowed thoughts to settle and take form. The air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and ink, the dim light of a single lantern casting long, flickering shadows over the walls lined with books and scrolls. Caleb sat slumped in the armchair closest to the desk, his posture uncharacteristically defeated. His golden eye glinted faintly in the warm light, but the exhaustion etched into his face dulled even that.

  Perched on the edge of his desk, Elysian studied Caleb with a mixture of concern and curiosity. The Archmage leaned back briefly to retrieve a bottle of dark amber liquid from a nearby shelf, its glass catching the light. Without a word, he poured a generous measure into two crystal tumblers, the scent of oak and caramel mingling with the room's earthy tones.

  “Drink,” Elysian said simply, holding out one of the glasses to Caleb. “It won’t solve anything but might help you find your footing again.”

  Caleb accepted the glass without hesitation, the weight of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He brought it to his lips, the sharp bite of whisky—rich and smoky, with hints of vanilla and spice—burning a trail down his throat. He exhaled slowly, feeling the warmth spread through his chest, a small but welcome reprieve from the cold knot of tension that had taken residence there.

  Elysian watched as his friend stared into the glass like it held answers he couldn’t yet see.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Elysian,” Caleb admitted after a long silence, his voice low and strained. “Every decision feels… wrong. Like I’m grasping at smoke.”

  “You’re doing what you always do,” Elysian said, settling into the chair across from him. “Overthinking. Planning five steps ahead when all you need is to take the next one.”

  Caleb let out a humourless laugh. “And if the next step leads to disaster?” Elysian swirled his own drink, watching the liquid catch the light before taking a sip. “Now,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “start from the beginning.”

  For almost an hour, Caleb recounted everything since his first encounter with the enigmatic woman Celestia. Words poured out of him, each memory sharper than the last: how she had fascinated him, the moment she arrived at his office in the city, the drama with Zara, the chaos on the sixth level of the dungeon, her breakdown, and her death.

  Elysian listened in silence, his expression unreadable, though his fingers occasionally drummed against his glass—a rare sign of unease.

  “And yet she’s alive,” Caleb said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to explain it, Elys. One moment, I was holding her lifeless body and the next…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Something happened. Something… beyond me.”

  Elysian’s brows furrowed as Caleb continued, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. He spoke of the unbidden and unfamiliar spell that had surged into his mind and how it had left his lips without thought or understanding.

  “And the Spirit King?” Elysian asked, his tone sharp now. “You’re certain it was the Spirit King?”

  “Yes,” Caleb replied, his golden eye meeting Elysian’s. “He called it the purest form of resurrection magic—a gift. And he mentioned… something else. A Soulmate Bond.”

  The words hung in the air between them, heavy and electric. Elysian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing. He set his glass down carefully on the desk as though grounding himself for what came next.

  “Caleb,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, tinged with an urgency that hadn’t been there before, “what you’re describing… it’s impossible. Or at least, it should be.”

  Caleb let out a bitter laugh. “Welcome to my life,” he muttered, taking another long sip of whisky. The warmth dulled the edge of his nerves but did little to quiet the storm in his mind. “Impossible seems to be the theme these days.”

  Elysian ignored the remark, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. “The resurrection spell,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “That’s no ordinary magic, Caleb. What you invoked is a Celestial Incantation—a long-forgotten one at that. A spell so pure and ancient is said to be a gift from the Celestials themselves. No mortal should even know of its existence, let alone be able to speak it. It’s a Myth.”

  Caleb stared at him, his exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by confusion. “Then how did I—”

  “You didn’t,” Elysian interrupted. “Not on your own. The incantation found you. It chose you. It’s tied to something far greater than either of us—a connection to the Celestials, to their divine will.”

  “And the Soulmate Bond?” Caleb pressed, his voice unsteady. “What does that mean?”

  Elysian exhaled slowly, his gaze softening just enough to reveal the weight of what he was about to say. “It’s called Soulbright,” he said, his voice reverent. “A bond protected by the Heartstar and its eternal guardian. It’s rare—so rare it’s been relegated to myth for centuries. But if what you’ve described is true, then the bond between you and Celestia is real. Unbreakable. And its power is unlike anything the mortal realm has ever known.”

  Caleb sank into his chair, mind reeling. He set the empty glass aside, fingers lingering on the cool surface. The room closed in, walls pressing against his thoughts, suffocating him. "This is too much," he murmured, voice barely audible. "The city office, the sixth level, Vexmoor, the Spirit King... now this? I don't know how to handle it all, Elysian. I don't even know where to start."

  Elysian’s expression softened further, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Start by breathing,” he said gently. “You’re overwhelmed because you’ve been carrying this alone. You don’t have to anymore.”

  Caleb let out a shaky breath, his hand running through his hair in a futile attempt to steady himself. “What if I fail her?” he whispered. “What if this bond—this magic—what if I can’t protect her?”

  “You will,” Elysian said firmly. “Because you already have. And because the bond itself will guide you, whether you realize it or not.”

  But before he could respond, Elysian rose from his seat and placed a hand on his shoulder, murmuring a quiet spell. The warmth of it seeped through Caleb’s frayed nerves, loosening the tension in his body despite himself.

  “Rest,” Elysian said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Whatever you’re searching for won’t come to you tonight. You’ve done enough.”

  Caleb opened his mouth to protest, but the spell’s gentle pull was insistent, drawing him toward the edges of sleep. “Elysian…” he muttered, the word slurred as his head tipped back against the chair.

  Elysian watched as Caleb’s breathing evened out, his friend finally surrendering to the rest he so desperately needed. With a quiet sigh, he adjusted the blanket over Caleb’s frame and settled back into his chair, keeping watch over the man who had always carried more than his share.

  The room fell into a companionable silence, the flickering lantern light casting shadows that danced along the walls. For now, at least, Caleb could rest. And that, Elysian thought, was a victory in itself.