Chapter 4 When the World Starts Listening
Cael parted his lips.
“I think it began with—”
Nothing came out.
His tongue moved.
His lips shaped sound.
But silence emerged.
Not ordinary silence.
A deliberate silence—like someone had pressed mute on a single, forbidden word.
Anil’s breath caught.
Lucien sat up so fast his chair creaked.
“Try again,” she whispered.
Cael tried.
His throat worked.
His chest lifted.
Silence.
Not blocked.
Not choked.
Denied.
He opened his eyes.
For the first time in a long time, something like fear flickered behind them.
“It’s not forgetting,” he murmured. “It’s forbidden. The world won’t let me say it.”
Lucien stiffened, humor draining from him completely.
“Oh, that’s new,” he muttered. “And disgusting. I hate it.”
Anil felt it then—the feather in her drawer, the weight of memory waiting to be named, the pressure of something watching from a distance that no longer felt distant at all.
“What if…” she whispered, “it isn’t the world stopping you?”
Cael turned toward her.
“What if it’s him?” she said softly. “What if Ardan isn’t just outside the rules—what if he’s rewriting them?”
No one spoke after that.
Not because they had nothing to say—
but because every possible answer felt too small.
They left the library in uneasy silence.
The corridor lights flickered as they walked, dimming just long enough to remind them that the building was no longer just a building.
A group of students laughed near the stairwell.
“Hey—do you remember that weird transfer guy from last term?” one asked. “The one with the—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
His expression emptied, hollowed, as if someone had blown out a candle behind his eyes.
“What was I saying?” he asked.
His friends frowned.
“You were talking about the game,” one said.
“No, before that. I was… someone…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Forget it.”
They moved on, laughing.
None of them noticed the lights blink once, long and slow.
Anil noticed.
Cael noticed.
Lucien muttered, low:
“He’s officially playing god, and it’s starting to irritate me.”
Cael’s voice was barely above breath. “He’s not playing god. He’s practicing.”
Anil whispered, “And when he stops practicing?”
Lucien smirked without a trace of humor. “Then class is over.”
That night, none of them wanted to be alone.
Lucien sprawled sideways across Anil’s desk chair, swinging one leg irritably.
Cael leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, silent and alert.
Anil sat on her bed wrapped in a blanket that didn’t do anything to warm the shaking inside her.
They talked about meaningless things.
Food. Classes. Lucien terrifying first-years into obedience.
It almost felt normal.
Until Anil said, without thinking:
“Do you ever wonder where Ar—”
Nothing.
The name didn’t stick in her throat.
It vanished.
Her lips moved.
Her breath moved.
No sound.
Cael straightened instantly.
Lucien froze mid-laugh.
“Try again,” Cael said quietly.
She tried.
“Ar—”
Nothing.
Not silence.
Absence.
As if the world refused to host the sound.
Her eyes stung.
“It’s gone,” she whispered.
Lucien shot to his feet. “Say anything else. Angel. Hybrid. My name. Preferably with devotion—”
“Lucien,” she croaked.
Sound. Clean.
“Cael,” she tried.
Sound. Steady.
She tried one more time.
“Ar—”
Nothing.
The shape of the word dissolved before it reached the air.
Cael’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked.
“It’s not just a name,” he said. “It’s a boundary.”
“A boundary to what?” Lucien demanded.
“To him,” Cael whispered.
Anil pressed a hand to her chest, as if something inside her had torn just slightly.
“He’s cutting himself out of us,” she murmured. “Piece by piece.”
Lucien swallowed. “Or he’s cutting us out of him.”
The lamp flickered once.
Then again.
Then steadied under a weight none of them could see.
It felt like a hand, enormous and curious, pressing against the edges of the world to test how easily it would shift.
Cael left the window and sat beside Anil, pulling her against him gently. His hand slipped into her hair, anchoring her.
“You still know him,” Cael murmured. “Even if you can’t speak his name. Your heart remembers.”
Lucien leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression softened into something almost vulnerable.
“And trust me,” he said quietly, “his heart remembers you too. Even now.”
Anil let herself cry.
Not for the boy he had been.
For the distance he was choosing.
For the version of him pulling farther from reach every hour the world rearranged itself.
Because Ardan had chosen something neither heaven nor hell had a word for:
A story that refuses to be spoken.
Outside, the wind shifted.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Listening.
And then—
Soft as breath—
delicate as ash—
something brushed the windowpane.
A feather.
Silver-shadowed.
Steady.
Deliberately placed.
Not a memory.
Not a message.
A summons.
Waiting.
Watching.
And acknowledging that the boundary they could not speak…
could still find them.
