Chapter 34
ARK
Ark returned home while his father slept. Oromon had sent word that his train would arrive at three. Enough time for him to shower, change into fresh clothes, and head to the station.
But when he reached his front door, his hand stilled on the handle.
He couldn’t bring himself to turn it.
He stood there, heart heavy. He’d known she’d be long gone.
Still, when he turned the knob, the silence behind the door struck him like a blow.
His home sprawled before him, yawning wide.
He had once preferred this silence that filled a room like fog—soft, impenetrable, and untouched.
Before Cassia, the emptiness of his home had been a comfort.
A space where no one demanded anything from him.
A refuge from the noise of the world and the weight of his name.
Ark exhaled slowly and stepped across the threshold. The sound of his boots echoed too loudly in the stillness.
His house hadn’t changed, but he had. The solitude that once suited him so well was now as tender as a bruise.
He went to the bedroom. The first thing he noticed was his hair, the lock he’d cut for her weeks ago to seal their agreement.
She’d scattered it like it meant nothing.
He’d watched her do it, watched the strands fall onto the floor.
But now, they were gathered—every single strand was collected and bound together with a piece of green twine.
The bundle sat on his pillow, placed with the kind of care that contradicted everything she’d just said to him.
He picked it up.
Something behind his ribs caved in—a slow, structural collapse, like a building that had held too long and finally gave.
He pressed the bundle to his mouth, breathing her in—cinnamon, salt, the ghost of her skin—and the sound that tore from his throat was nothing he recognized.
It wasn’t a roar or a sob but something between the two, ripped from a place he hadn’t known existed until she’d opened it.
Which was the truth? The woman who’d walked away, or the one who couldn’t leave without putting him back together first?
His hand hit the dresser before his mind caught up—a raw, graceless shove that ripped it from the wall, muscles screaming, the wood shrieking against the floorboards.
It crashed with a sound his home had never heard before.
A bottle shattered. Drawers splintered. He stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, fists trembling.
The silence afterward was worse than the noise.
He looked down at his hand. The bundle of hair was still there, cradled in his fist. Even in the worst of it—even when his body chose violence over composure for the first time in his life—he hadn’t let go of her.
He tucked it into his pocket and walked out of his bedroom, leaving the mess exactly where it fell. The first wreckage he’d ever chosen not to repair.
Because the room smelled like her, and he couldn’t breathe.
In his study, he sat behind his desk to write a magic missive. He hesitated, his quill’s tip hovering over the parchment as he raked his head for what to say.
I miss you. Too selfish.
Where are you? Too demanding.
Don’t go. Already too late.
In the end, he chose honesty above all else.
I need you. I want you.
The words shifted, drawn into the shape of a small raven. It blinked once, waiting. With a flick of his wrist, Ark sent it out the window. He stood to pace the room, waiting for a flower to appear on his desk and bloom beneath his gaze.
None came.
He dragged a hand through his hair and reached for his phone. If the magic missive didn’t move her, maybe a phone message—plain and human—might.
He typed, paused, erased. Typed again, and sent it off.
When, minutes later, his screen remained dark with no sign that she’d even read the message, he sat down, knuckles pressed against his lips, his knees bouncing restlessly.
He caught sight of a glint at the bottom of his door.
Ark leaned forward.
It was her belt, the beaded gold one she’d worn over her gown last night.
He picked it up slowly, turning it in his hands, examining the elvish craftsmanship.
Light as breath, it flowed with magic. It still held Cassia’s warmth, her presence.
And more importantly, it held a magical signature—the signature of someone he’d forgotten about, someone who could maybe help him understand: Opalina.
He stood, heart hammering harder now.
He had another way to reach Cassia.
Ark sent another Shadow Quill, this time to the dressmaker, and resumed pacing, each step tight with restless energy.
The reply arrived not as ink or parchment, but in true Opalina fashion: a shimmer of golden thread unspooling midair, needles dancing through empty space to stitch her words, letter by glowing letter.
Alderrath used Starlight to corner her.
Said she was standing between you and your father.
Told her to step aside while there’s still time.
He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists, resisting the urge to slam them against the wall.
He thought of the tiny altar hidden in her cabinet, where she’d left an offering in the form of a harvest loaf.
He knew it. He knew she didn’t leave because she wanted to.
She did it because she knew the pain of losing a father intimately, and couldn’t bear to be the reason he missed a single moment with his own.
Because she believed, with all that soft and stubborn courage of hers, that stepping aside was the right thing. The kind thing.
A very Cassia thing to do.
His phone buzzed. For a split second, his breath caught—hoping it might be her. Hoping she’d changed her mind and that she’d tell him where she was. That she missed him too. He looked down so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
But it wasn’t Cassia or Opalina.
It was from his brother.
Train’s arriving in thirty minutes.
The train screeched into the station, brakes hissing, magic humming beneath the wheels.
Ark stood just behind the painted yellow line, coat whipping in the breeze, his hair still damp from his quick shower.
He glanced at the empty spot beside him longingly.
Cassia should be here, meeting his brother for the first time.
Instead, her absence weighed him down like a stone.
Passengers spilled onto the platform, a blur of strangers he barely registered—until a familiar broad-shouldered gait cut through the crowd.
Oromon.
His younger brother scanned the platform until his golden eyes found Ark. No smile, but his shoulders eased. The same reserved expression—but Ark saw a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there last winter.
They hugged. Ark felt the powerful squeeze of Oromon’s arms.
“Welcome back,” Ark said quietly.
They stepped back. Oromon raised a dark brow. “Didn’t think you’d meet me yourself. You could’ve sent a driver.”
“How could I not? You’re my only brother.” He patted Oromon’s back. “Good to see you.”
Oromon’s lips thinned. “I wish I was returning under different circumstances.”
“Me too, brother.” Ark looked him up and down. “Why does it seem like every time I see you, you’ve gained another stone of muscle and a few inches of height?”
His brother stood a head taller than everyone else on the platform—thick muscles, calloused hands, obsidian-dark horns sweeping back from his temples. Years of lifting stone and scaffolding had carved him like a monument, and he moved like a man who didn’t waste effort impressing anyone.
One corner of Oromon’s mouth lifted. “Must be all the heavy lifting.” Then his expression sobered. “How are you holding up?”
The question hit hard. The weight pressed down on Ark’s shoulders. His limbs felt leaden.
“Not good,” he admitted, voice low.
A flicker of understanding passed through Oromon’s golden eyes. He looked around the platform. “I thought your witch would be with you. Why didn’t you bring her?”
Ark guided his brother through the bustling station—the air thick with magic and coal dust, vendors selling mulled wine and roasted chestnuts beneath the vaulted iron and glass ceiling. Once they were settled in the car, Oromon nudged him with a broad elbow.
“So? Where is she?”
Ark’s hands tightened on the wheel as he eased them out of the lot. “She left.”
Oromon was silent for a moment. “What did you do?”
Ark shot him a sidelong glance. “Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you always do something. Usually that brooding thing you do that scares the ladies away.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
The engine thrummed. The road ahead gleamed beneath the pale midday sun, light reflecting off the icicles on the tree branches, but he wasn’t seeing any of it.
“So, she’s the type who runs when things get hard?” Oromon’s voice began to rise. “Because if that’s what she thinks, she’s got another—”
“No.” Ark’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “It wasn’t that at all.”
“Then what?”
“She left because she’s good.” Each word weighed and measured. “Too good. She thought she was in the way—between me and Father. So, she stepped aside.”
He didn’t add the part about her father, the grief buried deep in her, the scar she’d carried since she was a girl. That pain wasn’t his to share.
Oromon shifted, some tension bleeding from his frame. “You sure that’s all it was?”
Ark nodded. “She saw what it meant to me. And she didn’t want me to carry the regret.” His fingers flexed on the wheel. “But I’m carrying it anyway. Different shape, same weight.”
Oromon leaned back with a long exhale, folding his arms. “Sounds like someone you shouldn’t let go.”
Ark didn’t answer right away. His mind had drifted back to Cassia’s laughter in his house, her silhouette in the morning light, the feel of her curled against him as if she belonged there.
He wasn’t ready to give up on her.
He didn’t plan to.