The first thing Illyen noticed when he awoke was the stillness. The kind of quiet that existed only in rooms untouched by recent life — where dust motes could dance undisturbed and even time seemed hesitant to move. The Scribe's Annex breathed that stillness, as though it had been waiting for him all along.
He was draped in a soft blanket, one that smelled faintly of cedar and lavender oil. A small fire had been lit in the hearth — not for warmth, but for comfort. Its flickering light painted the cedar shelves in gold. Across the table sat Cael, his blond hair loose for once, eyes half-shadowed as he read quietly through a collection of star maps.
Illyen stirred. Cael's gaze immediately lifted.
"You're awake," he said softly, closing the book. "How's your head?"
Illyen pressed a hand to his temple, surprised by the lack of pain. "Better. My thoughts feel… lighter. As if someone has combed through them."
"That would be Elara's doing," Cael replied. "She wove a mild stabilizing charm into the sedative brew. You'll feel steadier for a few hours."
Illyen smiled faintly. "Efficient woman."
"Dangerously so," Cael murmured, a flicker of affection crossing his face. "She'd order me to sleep in the archives if she thought I'd been hovering too long."
Illyen's laughter — soft, disbelieving — filled the annex like sunlight. It startled both of them. Cael looked as if the sound itself had resurrected something in him.
"You haven't laughed in days," he whispered, almost reverently.
Illyen shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I suppose I forgot how to."
⸻
The Book of Hours rested at the center of the table. In the morning light streaming from the skylight, its gold edges gleamed, patient and expectant.
Illyen reached toward it, tracing the clasp but not opening it yet. "It feels strange," he admitted. "To know my handwriting might be inside, and yet… it doesn't feel like mine."
"That's normal," Cael assured him, pulling his chair closer. "The first few entries might feel detached. But somewhere along the way, your heart will recognize its rhythm again."
Illyen nodded, then undid the clasp. The soft click of the metal echoed faintly through the annex. When he opened the first page, the air shifted — not magically, but emotionally — as if the room itself was taking a breath.
Inside, the ink had faded slightly, but the writing was neat and deliberate. Illyen's own name was scrawled across the top corner in elegant handwriting.
Day 14 of the Frostmoon, 847 A.V.
Cael has started mapping the stars again. He says it keeps him sane. I don't tell him it keeps me sane too.
Illyen stared at the words for a long time. He could feel the rhythm in them, faint but familiar. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page.
We spent the morning in the East Garden. The roses have died early, and Cael refuses to let the gardeners replant them. He says their withering was a sign of imbalance in the Veil. I said it was the frost. He smiled and didn't argue. He never argues anymore — only looks at me like he knows something I don't.
Illyen blinked rapidly. "This… this was before everything went wrong."
Cael's voice was quiet, careful. "Before the Veil began to weaken, yes. You wrote often then — mostly small, mundane things. They helped you focus."
Illyen's hand brushed over the ink. "It feels like I'm reading someone else's peace."
"Your peace," Cael corrected gently. "You earned it, Illyen."
⸻
There was a knock on the annex door. Cael rose swiftly, his protective instinct as sharp as ever. When he opened it, Emily stood there — radiant and tall, wrapped in a sapphire robe that shimmered faintly with morning dew.
"I thought you might both be here," she said with a smile that didn't quite hide her worry. "Elara told me the archivist's study nearly collapsed from magical backlash yesterday."
"Not collapsed," Cael said, his tone clipped but affectionate. "Shifted."
Emily rolled her eyes and entered anyway, carrying a tray of fresh bread, honey, and fruit. "I brought breakfast before you both forget to eat. You two are hopeless when you start brooding over books."
Illyen looked up at her — and for a brief second, memory flickered. Emily's laughter, echoing through a moonlit corridor. A younger version of her chasing him through the royal gardens, shouting that he owed her a ribbon. It wasn't sharp, wasn't painful — just a soft pulse of something real.
"You used to braid your hair differently," he said quietly.
Emily froze, then smiled — watery, radiant. "I did."
Cael's eyes softened as he looked between them. "Another piece returns," he murmured.
"Barely," Illyen whispered, pressing his fingers to his temple. "Like a thread tugging from under the surface."
Emily set the tray down and took Illyen's hand briefly, squeezing it. "Don't rush it. The stars took millennia to form. You're allowed to take your time."
⸻
After she left, the annex returned to its still quiet. Illyen and Cael ate in silence, their hands occasionally brushing across the table. When the meal was done, Cael reopened the Book of Hours to a new entry.
Cael drew the constellation again today. He says one star is missing — the smallest one at the edge of the arc. I told him stars don't vanish. He said sometimes, they're only hiding until someone remembers their name.
Illyen felt his chest tighten. "I wrote that?"
"You did," Cael said, a soft ache in his voice. "It became a metaphor for us. You said that as long as we remembered each other's name, nothing in this world could erase us."
The room fell silent again, but this silence was golden — full of weight, full of memory.
Illyen closed the book gently. "I want to see the stars tonight," he said suddenly. "The real ones."
Cael tilted his head. "The observatory?"
Illyen nodded. "If I wrote about constellations, maybe… seeing them again will help."
Cael hesitated — he didn't want to push too far, too fast. But when he saw Illyen's eyes — steady, clear, alive — he simply said, "Then tonight, we go."
⸻
That evening, the palace observatory glowed softly against the twilight. Its domed roof had been polished recently, gleaming like a silver mirror under the moon. Guards stood silently as Cael led Illyen up the spiral staircase.
At the top, the world unfolded — the kingdom of Serethis stretched out in quiet splendor, the city lights scattered like distant stars.
Illyen stepped to the edge, gripping the cold marble railing. The sky was vast, endless — and yet something in him knew where to look.
"There," he murmured, pointing to a faint arc of stars low in the east. "That's the constellation we mapped. The Crown of Hours."
Cael's breath caught. "You remember its name."
"I remember your hands," Illyen said softly. "Holding the telescope steady. You told me the smaller star — the one that vanished — always returns when the heart that names it is awake again."
Cael said nothing. He only turned to look at him, eyes shining with pride and grief and love all tangled together.
The wind was cold, but the air between them was warm. The stars above seemed to shimmer closer, as if listening.
For the first time since the memories began to return, Illyen didn't feel like he was drowning. The fragments no longer cut him — they built him.
He looked up at Cael, his lips curving into a tired but genuine smile. "It's starting to make sense. Slowly, but it is."
Cael reached out, brushing a loose strand of white hair from his face. "Every lifetime, you find your way back to me," he whispered. "And every time, I swear — I'll make the return gentler."
The stars above shimmered in silent agreement.
The missing star flickered faintly on the horizon — and for one heartbeat, the Crown of Hours shone complete.
The night under the observatory stars was calm, almost sacred. The Crown of Hours glimmered whole again, its light steady and reassuring. Years had passed since the last fractured memory, and the young men who faced tomorrow carried the wisdom of that time — stronger, steadier, and ready to meet what awaited them.