Chapter 5: Midnight
The knock at my door is too precise to be accidental—and far too early to be expected. My eyes snap open long before the first pale light of dawn, and in that instant I know two things: I'm awake too late, and someone has a purpose here.
I push aside my silk blankets—warded for temperature and dream‐seal so perfectly I nearly resent waking—and sit up. My chemise hangs loose, barely brushing mid‐thigh, and beneath it my charcoal undergarments are all that cover me: a simple bralette and fitted shorts, each etched with comfort wards. I make no effort to hide them; no cloak, no cloak at all. If the knock is from a student errand, they'll see it and mind their manners. If it's someone else… well, this is precisely who I am.
I glide onto the floor, the phosphorescent runes at my feet fading from sleep mode. After two steps, I press the ward‐release glyph on the doorframe. The knocks pause.
And then the door swings inward.
Caelen Aranthir stands there, taller than memory, shoulders squared in a dark cloak whose hem ripples like living shadow. His eyes—bronze threads through molten steel—linger for a heartbeat on my bare shoulders and the faint runic seal at my collarbone, but he says nothing. The soft corridor lanterns outline his broad form: the fold of his cloak, the rows of runed daggers at his belt, the unspoken tension coiled around him like wire.
"Feyri," he says, voice calm as tempered steel. "I'm sorry to wake you."
I deem the apology accepted, though I make no move to draw more cloth around myself. "You have my attention," I reply, tone neutral.
He steps inside without a second invitation, closing the door behind him. The wards click and hum to life, anchoring the silence. He loosens his cloak, draping it over the bench by the window. Sweat faintly dapples his forehead; I know the weight of leadership and ambition etched into his stance.
"I wanted to confirm," he begins, hands brushing the clasp of my doorframe, "that you received my formal invitation. Tomorrow at first light, the Crystal Relay ceremonies commence. The final phase—Team Enchantment—begins as the sun crests the east wall. I hope to see you there."
I cross to the bench, leaning back to study him. The air tastes of wards and jasmine from my bedside bowl, the only scent in the room. "You know I'll attend," I say. "You also know I require terms."
He nods, as though he expected the prompt. "Of course. Equal voice in design, no strategic secrets withheld, and—" His gaze flicks downward again to my undergarments, then lifts in a silent apology. "—and full credit for any weave components you create."
I fold my arms beneath the chemise's runic embroidery. "Agreed. Your team gains my emotional calibration, and I gain a stake in your triumph."
The tension in his jaw relaxes. "Thank you." He inclines his head, determination shining in his eyes.
I nod once, turning away to the opposite wall to examine the runic tapestry there and mask whatever stir his presence ignited.
It's then that I hear the knock again—urgent, softer but no less insistent. Caelen looks back, eyebrows arching.
"More early‐morning trouble?" he asks.
I press the ward‐release on my side of the frame. "Perhaps." As I step aside, the door opens on Rowan Graves: dark eyes wide, cheeks already flushed, armed with equal parts hope and awkwardness. He's clad in trousers and a loose tunic that he must have slipped into pre-dawn. The corridor lanterns haze his form in golden light.
He sees me in my undergarments, then looks away quickly, as if himself embarrassed. "F‐Feyri, I—sorry to disturb you."
I shrug. "Why are you even here? You know what just come in." I offer him a seat on the bench that Caelen vacated, a respectful six feet from my own as a courtesy.
Rowan swallows, gaze slipping over the expanse of silk chemise and charcoal wards I usually keep hidden beneath layers. "You… you're um… not wearing—" He clears his throat. "I—didn't expect…"
"Clothes?" I prompt softly, raising an eyebrow.
He blinks and laughs, a nervous sound. "Right. Clothed. Of course." He settles onto the bench, the first real guest I've admitted since dawn. "I brought those diagrams as you asked." He pats the satchel at his side.
I turn to my closet. I pull out a soft silk shirt warded for warmth. I put it on swiftly, and return to the closet—I spot my cloak. I grab it and put it around me.
I turn back to Caelen, who simply watches us both with calm curiosity. "Rowan's refinement of yesterday's resonance grid?" I ask.
He shrugs, as though indifferent. "If he's prepared."
Rowan opens the satchel and pulls out vellum sheets covered in tidy runic sketches and notes. He glances at me, warmth in his eyes. "I've been—thinking about your method of layering trust and tide rhythms. And reworking the anchor spokes to counteract bleed-over." He slides the papers across.
I glance at Caelen, who nods an invitation to continue this impromptu morning meeting. Behind us, the dawn's first glow filters through the window, lighting the small study chamber in pearly gray.
"Thank you," I tell Rowan, smoothing out the diagrams. I trace a correction on one of the anchor spokes. "Your spacing is better, though the tonal inversions need tightening. See how this outer band—where tide energy and trust energy overlap—flutters? Anchor it here."
Rowan leans in, absorbing every movement of my hand as though it's a lesson in sunlight. "Right," he breathes. "This ring…"
I nod, then pause as I sense the moment slipping into something else. Rowan's gaze lifts to me—eyes so earnest and unconcealed it jars me from my professional reserve. He swallows and blurts, "You have—your skin—like moonlight on water. "
I straighten, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. Caelen's eyebrows lift, interest flickering in his gaze. "Your compliments are as precise as your wards, Rowan," I say, tone calm but firm. "Stick to rune geometry."
Rowan flushes brighter, cheeks blooming with color. "I—sorry. I just…" He glances sideways at Caelen, who remains silent but attentive. "I admire you. All of you."
Caelen inclines his head slightly. "Honesty is a rare ward."
Rowan nods, taking heart. He leans forward, voice softer still: "Your eyes—seafoam green—they anchor me. And your shoulders… they carry purpose, not burden."
I fold my arms beneath my chemise. "You admire shadows and strengths both." I direct my gaze to the diagrams again. "Focus on channeling that energy."
Rowan sits back but continues: "When I make the circle, I think of how you trace it—each line with intent. I want to guard it the way you do."
I allow a moment's silence. Outside, lanterns flicker. Caelen stands, cloak draping in ebony folds. His presence reminds me why he courted me at dawn: raw power without stillness, brilliance without heart. Rowan's gentle devotion is the other extreme.
I fold the diagrams neatly. "Your revisions are sound," I tell Rowan. "Integrate these changes, then practice deploying under pressure. Tomorrow, we test it in motion. Maybe we can do a strategic meeting?" I glance at Caelen expecting an answer.
Rowan beams even thoughmy head is pointed towards Caelen. "Thank you, Feyri." I turn and look at him again. He stands—and I see him glance again at my outfit then quickly back to my face. "You're… fearless."
I offer him a curt, acknowledging nod. "I guard my boundaries."
Rowan hesitates, then steps back. "Of course." He meets Caelen's gaze briefly.
Caelen releases his cloak from the bench and drapes it over one shoulder. "I'll see you after lunch," he says to me, then to Rowan, "and you as well."
"Wait! C- could I maybe join you guys?" Rowan Graves breaks the silence like a bell tolling. "Join my team? Well I don't see why not." Caelen answered sheepishly. Oh great...
"Then it's decided," I say, voice low but resolute. "Relay in two days." All though Caelen didn't agree I said "You two… meet me in the north tower at midday for strategy."
Both men—one legend, one hopeful novice—incline their heads. I turn to the wall tapestry, fingertips brushing the runic threads, weaving resolve into my spine.
Outside, the corridor's hush seems to hold its breath. Within, the unnatural figure still lingers beyond sight.
And as the three of us part ways—Rowan back down the hall, Caelen lifting the cloak from the bench, and me, slipping back into the chemise and wards—I know the race we began isn't just for Crystal Relay glory. It's for our very defense.