The words echoed inside her like a ripple through still water.
"To know about you."
The storm that had burst into the room faded as quickly as it began. The broken glass fell gently to the floor, clinking like wind chimes. The drapes dropped, lifeless. The candles steadied.
Aurora blinked—slowly, as if waking from a dream.
Lady Mairead stepped forward, her expression sharpened by something between wonder and concern.
"What did it say?" she asked.
Aurora hesitated, then spoke softly.
"It said… 'To know about you."
The weight of her words settled like fog. Even the air felt heavier.
Elias tilted his head, brow furrowed.
"That's not an answer."
Master Corvan muttered under his breath, "Or perhaps it is the beginning of one."
Lady Mairead turned toward the center of the room, lost in thought. "The Hall has always spoken in riddles. But this… this feels different."
Aurora's hands tightened around her bag. "It didn't sound like a riddle. It sounded like… it didn't know either. Like it was trying to figure me out."
That made them go still.
Even the flickering flames seemed to pause.
Elias whispered, "The Hall is ancient. It has memory older than us all. And yet it doesn't know you?"
He stood slowly, the lines of his face tight with unease. "That's… unsettling."
Master Corvan moved to the shattered window, examining the glass.
"You're not a guest here, Aurora. You're a question and Eldridge Hall does not like unanswered questions. "
Aurora looked down at her lap, heart pounding. "So what does that make me?"
Lady Mairead's voice was quiet. "It makes you important. And dangerous."
Another pause. Then—movement.
A low rumble passed beneath the floor, like a great stone shifting underground.
Aurora stood slowly. "I don't belong here."
Lady Mairead raised an eyebrow. "Do any of us?"
Aurora's breath hitched. "I didn't ask for this. I just wanted to go home."
Elias crossed his arms. "If it were that simple, you'd already be gone."
Aurora turned to him, fire rising in her chest. "Then make it simple."
The room stilled again.
Lady Mairead stepped forward. "We can't. The Hall does not keep people against their will... unless it has reason to."
Aurora whispered, "So I'm a prisoner."
"No," Corvan said. "You are in between. Not held. Not free. Just… watched."
A flicker of cold brushed Aurora's neck. Then—
A whisper.
"You don't want to be known?"
She stiffened.
"What is it?" Mairead asked, instantly alert.
"It spoke again," Aurora whispered. "It asked… if I don't want to be known."
The silence that followed wasn't normal. It was full. Listening.
Then the voice came back—low, hollow, unmistakable:
"If you wish to leave… you may.
But on one condition…"
The candles leaned in toward her. The windows sealed shut.
"You are not to speak of this place—to anyone. Not in whispers. Not in dreams. Not even in thought, if you can help it."
Aurora stood frozen, barely breathing.
"And when the light glows for you again… you must return."
The final word pulsed through her chest like a heartbeat.
She opened her mouth to reply—but the guardians had already seen her change.
Mairead gave a slight, reverent nod. "It has spoken. And chosen."
Aurora looked at them, voice barely a whisper.
"I just have to come back… if the light glows again."
Corvan finished her thought. "And never speak of this place. Break that, and the Hall may not be so kind a second time."
She didn't need to be warned again.
Because deep in her bones, she already understood—this wasn't just a choice.
It was a bond.
And it had already begun.
Just as Aurora turned to leave Eldridge Hall, the elder warden stepped forward. Her robe billowed softly as though stirred by time itself.
"This isn't just a watch" she said, placing the object in Aurora's hand. "It's your tether. It knows both worlds."
The watch gleamed with silver and faint light. Two dials spun independently—one racing like a heartbeat, one crawling like the moon. The outer circle marked Earth time. The inner showed the rhythm of Eldridge Hall.
"Ten minutes in your world," the elder continued, "is an hour here. This will help you keep track. But it does more."
Aurora looked up, questions flickering in her eyes.
"It senses danger. When darkness nears, it will warm against your skin. And when the time comes—when you truly need to return—press the glass face, and the Hall will open for you again."
Aurora clutched the watch, its surface already warm—alive. She felt like it was watching her too.
The elder hesitated, then turned her gaze toward the shadows beyond the hall. A figure stepped forward.
Caelum Thorne.
He stood silent, his usual sharpness dulled by something quieter—guilt, perhaps. The fire behind his eyes was caged, burning but held back.
"He will watch over you" the elder said.
Caelum flinched slightly but said nothing.
Aurora blinked in surprise. "But... why him?"
The elder answered without looking at either of them.
"Because sometimes, the most dangerous among us are also the most capable of protection."
Caelum's jaw tightened. He met Aurora's gaze only briefly. "Ididn't ask for this," he muttered. "But I'll do it."
Then he stepped back into the shadows. A flicker of flame danced briefly at his fingertips before vanishing.
Aurora stared at the watch again. It ticked—slow, steady, glowing softly.
Two times. Two lives. One silent protector.
The moment felt heavier than goodbye. Aurora clutched the watch tighter as the Hall's gate slowly creaked open to the real world. Before stepping through, she turned back one last time.
And suddenly, it struck her.
He was one of them.
NO.
A student.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?" she whispered.
The elder only smiled faintly. "Some things aren't told. They're found."
Aurora looked at Caelum again. His face was unreadable, as though carved from flame-hardened stone. His silence didn't feel cruel — it felt… careful.
He had learned to control his power, they said.
But he still feared himself.
And maybe that's why he refused to speak to her, especially.
Because he had been asked to protect her.
And he thought he might be the very danger she needed protection from.
Before she could speak, the wind shifted. The gate opened wider. The real world called her back.
She stepped through, the warmth of the watch on her wrist reminding her that though she was leaving, not everything had been left behind.