The house breathes softly in the golden light of dawn, like it, too, is recovering from last night's dramatic revelations and uninvited memory-laced emotional spirals.
The ivy on the stone walls flutters with the morning breeze, whispering confidential leaf gossip to the windowpanes. Somewhere inside, a floorboard creaks…not ominously, just with the stubborn persistence of an old ghost determined to keep its tenancy status relevant.
Elara stands in the narrow hallway, wrapped in a coat too large for her thoughts and a mood that hovers somewhere between contemplative heroine and barely caffeinated disaster. Her fingers curl around the hidden pocket sewn deep into the lining of her coat…the one holding all four shards.
All of them.
Together.
They pulse faintly against her ribs, like small impatient hearts with delusions of grandeur. She tries not to read too much into it, which is difficult when your coat is basically vibrating with ancient cosmic potential.
She hasn't looked at them directly since placing the fourth one there. She's not avoiding them, exactly. She's just...diplomatically postponing direct eye contact with objects that may or may not be sentient.
Instead, she traces the wood of the old doorframe beside her with absent fingers…markings still faintly visible where she once tallied her height in chalk. There's even a little scuff labeled "Time?" from a brief but bold attempt to measure hours using optimism and a broken sundial. It didn't go well.
The house feels different now. Not haunted…just oddly attentive. Like it's watching her. Judging her life choices in a gently concerned, antique kind of way.
The curtains twitch dramatically, the tea cups rattle with barely restrained commentary, and the grandfather clock downstairs chimes ten minutes behind, as usual…just to remind everyone that time is subjective and sometimes deeply passive-aggressive.
Elara exhales.
She's not sure what she expects to feel. Power? Clarity? Destiny in bold italics?
Mostly, she just feels...like herself. But slightly warmer. With a weird internal hum. And the constant background knowledge that she's now carrying enough ancient magic to start a small apocalypse by accident. Again.
So. That's neat.
"Morning, Elara," Moony says, appearing like a perfectly timed stage cue made of sarcasm and whiskers.
He pads through the hallway with deliberate grace, his fur fluffed just enough to suggest he disapproves of the draft, the lighting, and possibly existence in general. His golden eyes narrow slightly as he studies her. Suspiciously.
"You're being very quiet. Suspiciously so. Which usually means one of two things: emotional growth or imminent magical catastrophe."
Elara gives him a side glance. "Can't it be both?"
Moony flops onto the rug like a philosopher who has accepted the futility of breakfast. "Absolutely. I just prefer to know which kind of disaster we're leaning toward before I finish my tea."
There's a beat of quiet.
The shards hum.
Moony's ears flick. "So...they're all in there?"
Elara nods.
"And?"
"They hum," she offers.
"They hum," he repeats, deeply unimpressed. "Not exactly a riveting climax to a multi-book magical relic hunt."
"They're polite about it," she adds, shrugging. "Like...respectful chaos. Very civilised. Honestly, I'm a little concerned."
Moony groans into the floorboards. "Polite relics are never polite for long. They lull you into a false sense of security, then boom…metaphysical whiplash."
"I was hoping for strength. Or confidence. Or a dramatic glow-up. Instead, I just feel...sparkly and underqualified."
"Welcome to magical puberty," he mutters. "Next comes the crying and the mysterious urge to start fights with furniture."
Elara almost smiles.
Almost.
Moony, ever perceptive (and very possibly clairvoyant), tilts his head toward the stairs. "And Rowan?"
She hesitates.
"He's...quiet."
Moony's tail lashes once. "That's the problem."
"He's just processing."
"He's processed before, and I've never seen him do it without pacing, arguing with gravity, or declaring some dark poetic truth while brewing tea. This new...stillness?" He narrows his eyes. "I don't like it."
Elara exhales slowly. "You're reading too much into it."
"I read just enough. He's not blinking properly. He didn't insult anyone's intelligence yesterday. And I'm ninety percent sure his tea was...lukewarm, Elara."
She doesn't respond.
Because deep down, in that quiet, unsettling place that lives between instinct and memory…she feels it too.
Downstairs, the house has begun its usual morning charade of pretending it's normal.
Valen lounges along the banister like an aristocratic houseplant, mug in hand, hair suspiciously perfect for someone who slept under a painting "for ambience." He raises his mug toward Elara like he's toasting something.
"Sleep well, Dreamkeeper?"
She narrows her eyes. "You're trying something. What is it?"
"Just flirting with destiny," he says, winking. "And possibly you."
"Try the tea instead."
"Oh, I did. It was very judgmental. And I like my beverages less moralistic."
Cass sits by the window…not reading, for once…but elbow-deep in her satchel, pulling out vials, crushed herbs, and one extremely opinionated thistle. She mutters under her breath, not to Elara, but to...someone. Possibly a ghost. Possibly herself. Possibly both.
"Cass," Elara offers.
Cass doesn't look up. "Hmm."
"I can't tell if you're busy or in a fugue state."
Cass pulls out a bottle, frowns at it, then whispers, "No, not that one. That's for minor hauntings and overly enthusiastic relatives." She glances up briefly. "I'm workshopping an antidote. Or a curse. Jury's out."
Fenwick stands before the grandfather clock, again, fingers steepled like he's about to challenge it to a duel.
"It ticks when no one's watching," he mutters. "It knows."
Moony hops onto the hearth and surveys the room. "Is no one else alarmed that Rowan isn't here yet?"
Valen shrugs. "Probably brooding somewhere. Maybe polishing a sword in the moonlight. Or dramatically communicating with shadows."
"He doesn't brood. He paces," Moony huffs. "He monologues. He insults chairs. This quiet version is terrifying."
Cass glances up. "Maybe he's with Elara."
"I'm literally here," Elara says flatly.
"Oh," Cass says. "Then... perhaps he's haunting the garden."
Fenwick blinks. "Have we misplaced Rowan?"
"He's not lost," Elara insists.
But Moony just gives her a look.
The kind of look that says maybe not lost, but not entirely found either.
The air shifts…not dramatically, but meaningfully. Like the house itself has started listening harder.
Elara drifts to the window.
Outside, the garden waits. Half-wild, half-memory, it sprawls under the grey-blue sky like an overgrown secret. The vines coil around the old stones. The wind hums with ancient lullabies she doesn't quite remember and never quite forgets.
Her hand tightens over the shards.
They pulse stronger now.
Clearer.
Something is waking.
Maybe power.
Maybe truth.
Definitely trouble.
And somewhere out there...the next step waits.
Elara exhales, slow and steady.
"I have a bad feeling about today," she mutters.
Moony snorts beside her. "Good. That means we're on the right path."