A week passed.
The days slipped into rhythm. Celia worked beside Eliot with far more confidence now—correcting him without hesitation, laughing when he made mistakes, and teasing him whenever he got too serious. She still blushed, of course—when their hands brushed by accident, or when he leaned a little too close—but her words no longer tangled in her throat like before.
Eliot wasn't unaffected either. Sometimes Celia caught him glancing away too quickly, his ears burning red. Those small moments tightened her chest with a quiet, secret happiness.
And one thing she knew for certain. She wanted to protect him.
That evening, the cabin was quiet. Only the fire crackled. They were sealing jars when Eliot suddenly froze, his hands stalling halfway.
"Celia…" he said, looking at her with unexpected seriousness.
She set aside a bundle of sage.
"What is it?"
He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath.
"I keep thinking… You're always helping me. Always there, even when I don't understand something myself. But you… you have mana. I can feel it."
Celia's eyes widened.
"Mana…?"
Before Eliot could explain, a cold voice cut through the air.
"Hah. So you noticed."
They turned. Oswald squinted at them, pipe glowing faintly in his hand.
"Witches are born with mana in their bones," he said, exhaling a stream of smoke. "The girl's got plenty. But that doesn't mean she has to be a witch again. Mages use mana too. The difference is in how it's shaped. Discipline. Study. Practice."
Celia froze. Her breath caught, her eyes darting toward him in shock.
"Y-you… knew?"
Oswald looked at her as if she'd asked whether the sun rose in the east.
"Of course I knew. From the day you stepped through my door. You can hear it in your breathing, in the way mana hums inside you. You don't need to be a genius to recognize what you are."
Eliot tensed, worry flashing in his eyes.
"Then why did you stay silent? Why didn't you tell anyone?"
The old man leaned back a little, his tired gaze softening.
"Because it wasn't my secret. And because I don't fear witches. My wife was one. A kind, brave woman. You remind me of her." His voice roughened, weighed with memory. "They hunted her down too. Burned her. I swore I'd never judge another like her again. She's the reason I became a healer."
Celia's lips trembled, but no words came. Pain and gratitude knotted together in her chest.
"I won't say a word," Oswald went on firmly. "Not to Daniel. Not to anyone. The world is cruel enough without me adding betrayal to it."
Eliot blinked, stunned, then slowly exhaled. Relief softened his face. He glanced at Celia.
She met his gaze, heart hammering, then turned back to Oswald.
"…Thank you," she whispered.
The old man waved it off, as if her words were a burden. But warmth flickered in his eyes.
"And you, boy," he added, tapping his pipe toward Eliot. "Don't think I've got you all figured out either. There's something strange about you too. I don't know what yet… but I'll find out."
Eliot frowned, unease in his eyes.
"…A hunch?"
Oswald smiled thinly.
"aye. When I understand, I'll tell you. For now…" He emptied the ash into the fire, sparks scattering. "You've got enough to deal with already."
Silence followed. Heavy, but not hostile. Celia and Eliot exchanged a glance—half wonder, half relief.
Eliot exhaled slowly, his shoulders lowering as if a weight had been lifted. For the first time, he looked at Oswald not just as a teacher but as someone he could trust.
The old man gave a short nod, knocking his pipe against the hearth.
"Now then. You've got mana in spades, Celia. The real question is, what will you do with it?"
Celia hesitated, then asked quietly,
"Does that mean… I can become a mage?"
Oswald nodded.
"The potential's there. But it won't be easy. Drawing mana is like trying to hold fire in your bare hands. You'll get burned plenty before you learn control."
"I don't care," Celia said quickly, eyes shining with resolve. "I want to learn. I want…" Her cheeks burned crimson. "…I want to protect Eliot."
Eliot's gaze lingered on her. His ears turned red, but he said nothing.
Oswald's eyes shifted to him.
"And you, boy? You don't have a drop of mana. Not now, not ever. Magic isn't your path."
Eliot's chest tightened. He lowered his eyes to his hands, clenching them.
"So… I'm useless," he muttered.
Celia's throat tightened at the pain in his voice.
"You're not useless!" she said quickly, but he didn't look up.
Oswald smirked.
"Not useless. Just different. The gods don't choose Timekeepers—or anchors—by chance. Your strength will never be magic, boy. But strength comes in many forms. You've got will. Spirit. The kind that doesn't break even when the world does. That's rare."
Eliot frowned.
"Doesn't sound… very useful."
The old man shrugged.
"You'll see. In time."
Celia's heart ached at the doubt in Eliot's eyes. She reached out, brushing his sleeve.
"You're already stronger than anyone I know. Even without spells… I want you with me."
At last, he met her gaze. Something in him softened. Slowly, he raised his hand and patted her head, his cheeks tinged pink.
"You're important to me. Got it?"
The words tumbled out—rough, clumsy, but honest.
Celia's face went hot, her words catching in her throat. For a heartbeat she couldn't breathe—then she forced them out, barely more than a whisper.
"I-I… You're important to me too."
Her hands tightened together, trembling slightly.
Eliot's ears went red. He looked away, then back at her, and a clumsy smile tugged at his lips.
"…I'm glad," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
They sat in silence, both red-faced, the air thick with everything left unsaid.
Finally, Eliot coughed and looked away.
"T-tomorrow… we start. Training."
Celia nodded quickly, clutching her cloak to her chest as if to steady her racing heart. But inside, she kept repeating their words, over and over, like a vow that belonged only to them.
"You're important to me."
"You're important to me too."