Aurelius did not sleep well that night. Not for nightmares—he'd long outgrown the kind that tore through sleep—but for something far softer, far stranger. A lingering warmth in his chest. A pulse beneath his skin. A smile he couldn't quite place.
He lay in bed with ink-stained fingers and a half-read book, watching the moon cast pale silver through the carved windowpane.
It had been the way she smiled.
Not the joy itself—though it was radiant—but the way it wrapped around her. The gentleness of it. Her eyes had glistened with something rare and childlike, the kind of happiness untouched by the world's sharp edges. It had reached somewhere in him that he hadn't known was still tender.
He'd always written of such moments. Poetic glimpses of heartbeats shifting. But to live it… to feel his own heart stutter for no reason but the curve of a girl's lips—
It unsettled him.
And thrilled him.
The following morning was sun-washed and warm, a soft breeze brushing through the arches of Halebourne like the sigh of old ghosts.
Desdemona was waiting beneath the cypress near the east courtyard, her book pressed to her chest, and her eyes catching the light like two flecks of amber.
Aurelius approached, brushing hair from his brow.
"You waited," he said.
Her smile was shy, but sure. "I did."
Together, they walked toward the village gates where their siblings would soon be released from the small Day House by the chapel.
They didn't speak much on the way. And yet the silence wasn't empty. It was the kind of quiet that lives between pages, the kind filled with the soft rustling of thoughts and glances.
When they reached the cobbled path outside the gate, the two little ones were having an argument.
"You tell the worst stories," Milo grinned, nudging Delphine. "They don't make any sense! Like, one time you said a knight rode a talking cabbage."
Delphine stuck out her tongue in mock offense. "They're not bad stories! They're… creative."
Aurelius chuckled. "Sounds like she's got a unique imagination."
Desdemona smiled, watching the two children banter. "Well, at least she's trying."
They began walking back toward the town square, the children skipping ahead. The sun dipped low, bathing the streets in a warm glow. When Milo tripped over a loose stone, Aurelius caught him just before he fell.
"You're fast, mister!" Milo exclaimed, laughing.
Desdemona laughed softly, the sound like a breeze in the quiet evening.
"Would you like to leave me a note?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.
He blinked.
"In case… you know, for the children. Or just…"
Her voice trailed off, unsure.
Aurelius stared at her for a moment, his heart thudding louder than it ought to. There was something in her tone—uncertain, hopeful—that made him feel like maybe it wasn't just him.
He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his coat pocket and scribbled a few words in his neat, deliberate hand. Then, without a word, he held it out to her.
She unfolded it carefully.
"The courtyard by the old fountain, just before dusk. Every Tuesday and Friday."
Her breath caught softly. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her blush blooming like dawn.
"I'll be there," she said, barely above a whisper.
Aurelius smiled, his voice low and warm.
"Then… it's a date."
Days passed like petals falling from a slow-turning blossom. They began to speak more, not just in the quiet of their secret courtyard but in corridors, beneath staircases, after class. Sometimes their fingers brushed when passing books. Once, their hands remained there a little too long, and she pulled away quickly, the look in her eyes something he couldn't name.
His friends noticed.
"Who's the little wren you've been fluttering after?" asked Elias one morning, nudging Aurelius in the ribs as they crossed the south quad.
"Desdemona," Aurelius said simply.
Elias gave a low whistle. "The girl with the copper crown. I thought she never talked to anyone."
"She does now."
Elias eyed him sidelong. "She makes you smile."
Aurelius shrugged, though a ghost of that smile already tugged at his mouth.
And then there was the boy. The one who had mocked her. Who had stolen her journal, called her names, bruised her with words.
He approached her after Literature.
Aurelius stood nearby, stiff with watchfulness.
But the boy—Roland—had his eyes downcast.
"I came to say I was sorry," he muttered. "For what I said. For what I did. It wasn't right."
Desdemona blinked, uncertain. "Why now?"
Roland shuffled. "Because someone punched sense into me. And because… you didn't deserve it."
She looked to Aurelius, and he gave her a small nod. She turned back to Roland and said, "Thank you."
That was all.
It was enough.
The weeks unfurled. They grew into something resembling real friends—those rare souls who didn't need to pretend. They sat side by side on library floors, shared tartlets beneath lilac trees, passed scribbled notes with snippets of verse.
One afternoon, as Aurelius walked her to the edge of her street, he noticed how she hummed when the wind blew, as though trying to remember the sound.
"Do you always sing in the breeze?" he asked.
She looked surprised. "Do I?"
"You do."
She blushed, glancing down. "Then… only when I'm happy."
He stared at her, this strange girl with fire-colored hair and a heart full of stories.
"I'm glad," he said quietly, "that you're happy."
Later that night, alone in his chamber with the candle guttering low, he reached for his notebook and a freshly inked quill. But the words that came were not for the Ember Tower or its brooding hero.
They were about her.
About lightness and stillness. About shy glances and quiet music.
About a girl who smiled like warmth, and a boy who was starting to understand what it meant to fall without falling apart.