Celia's face burned so hot she could barely feel her own cheeks. No matter how hard she tried to steady her hands, they betrayed her—her fingers trembled, the pestle slipping from her grasp.
Eliot noticed. Of course he noticed. He always did.
"Why are you blushing so much?" he asked softly, leaning closer, brushing her forehead with his hand.
Her breath caught.
"Wh-what?"
"You look like you have a fever…" His brows knitted in worry, and before she could pull away, his hand rose. The back of his fingers barely grazed her cheek before resting gently on her forehead.
The touch struck her like lightning. His skin was warm and steady—so calm it made her head spin. Her pulse thundered so fiercely she was sure he must feel it beneath his palm.
Every breath carried his scent—pine, earth, and a faint trace of smoke from the hearth. It wrapped around her, disarming her more than any spell ever could.
Her lips trembled.
"I-I'm fine… it's nothing…"
But it wasn't "nothing."
It was everything.
A shiver ran through her chest, her stomach turned over, and her heart pounded so violently she thought even Eliot must hear it. His gaze held hers, and for a heartbeat the entire world narrowed to this moment: the warmth of his hand, the tremble of her breath, and the unspoken desire that hung in the air. Even Celia wondered if a heart could beat this fiercely.
And then—
Time stopped. It couldn't have been Eliot's ability; he hadn't used it.
Snow outside froze mid-fall. The ravens hung in the air, wings outstretched.
Only Eliot. Only Celia.
And the one who stepped out of the silence.
A youthful figure, shining, as though not of the mortal world. A face without age, without time. Eyes—deep, endless, heavy with centuries.
The voice came through the stillness—calm, absolute.
"So… You've finally found your anchor."
Celia's blush vanished at once. Not because her heart had calmed—it still raced wildly from Eliot's nearness. But because she understood this mattered. It mattered to him. And if it mattered to Eliot, it mattered to her.
She straightened beside him, her fingers brushing against his hand—not for herself, but for him. To give him strength. She was ready. Always ready, if it meant standing by him.
Eliot's jaw tightened, but his voice was steady:
"You. You've come to me twice before. Why? What do you want from me?"
The god's gaze lingered on him, sharp, studying.
"You're calmer than the last time. That is good. You're beginning to accept what you are."
"What am I?" Eliot's voice wavered with doubt.
The figure tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.
"I am Isedore, God of Time. And you, Eliot Graymond, are bound to threads you cannot yet see. Your presence matters. The future cannot move without you."
Celia stepped forward. Her voice rang clear, unwavering.
"Are you a danger to him?"
Isedore's gaze turned to her. Cold, yet sharp as steel.
"Danger? That is not for you to decide. I am what I am. Whether I become your enemy… or your ally… will not be for me to choose, but for the two of you."
The words hung in the silence, heavy as stone.
And then the world began to move again.
The fire hissed, spitting sparks. Snowflakes resumed their fall. The ravens cawed harshly in the distance. Oswald shifted, reaching for a jar, as if nothing had happened at all.
Time had rewound itself ten seconds.
Once more, Eliot's hand rose toward her forehead. His expression was unchanged—the same concern, the same warmth, the same steady focus she had already seen.
But this time, Celia's heart raced for another reason. They both remembered. Time had stopped. Isedore had spoken. And yet here they stood again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Oswald muttered to himself at the shelves, and the ravens croaked from their perch, as though the fabric of time had never been torn apart and sewn together again.
Celia quickly lowered her gaze, pulling away from his hand before it could linger. Her face still burned, her words tangled. "Say something, anything," she begged herself, but her lips stayed sealed.
She couldn't. Not here. Not with Oswald only a few steps away.
So she waited. Waited for him to speak first, because she would stumble if she tried.
Eliot glanced at Oswald, then back at her. His mouth opened, then closed, as though weighing his choices. At last, he cleared his throat, muttered something about "more firewood," and gave her the slightest nod toward the door.
Celia understood immediately. She snatched her cloak from the hook and slipped out after him, her cheeks still burning so fiercely her skin tingled.
The cold stung her cheeks the moment she stepped outside, stealing her breath. The yard lay quiet under its blanket of snow, too calm compared to the storm twisting inside her chest. Eliot was waiting by the fence, his breath misting in the air, a few snowflakes caught in his dark hair. For a while, neither of them said anything.
Eliot broke it first.
"Your face…" He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "It really was red."
Celia pressed her cold palms against her cheeks, praying to smother the heat.
"I-I know," she admitted softly. "I couldn't hide it."
Her gaze darted anywhere but him, but then, for a heartbeat, she forced herself to meet his eyes.
"I… I just didn't know what to say. Not in there. Not with Oswald watching."