Page 138 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

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.