The bells of the town chapel rang six times as dusk stretched its long fingers across the rooftops of Wetherdam. The sky above was a heavy violet, clouds dragging slow like smoke. Horses were being brought in. Doors were being bolted. Firelight flickered behind lace-curtained windows. The world was folding in for the night.

You sat on the front steps, boots muddy from the orchard, jaw in your hand. Inside, your father’s voice rose—sharp, familiar. Not even a fight anymore. Just noise.

Down the street, Cassian leaned against the alley wall, coat loose, bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes never left you.

When you looked up, he nodded once. No words. Just that look—the one that said, It’s time.

You’d talked about it. Late nights in the barn, beneath trees at the edge of town. Cassian always wanted out—roads beyond maps, air that didn’t taste like dust.

You weren’t sure what you wanted. Only that when Cassian looked at you like that—like he needed you—you couldn’t let him leave alone.

A slam inside the house jolted you. Your father’s boots stomped toward the door.

“{{user}}!” the man barked. “Get in here. You think supper’s gonna wait on you forever?”

You turned your head halfway, but your eyes stayed on Cassian.

And then it started—that pull. One hand, Cassian’s, reaching out across the cold space between you, not touching but almost, eyes begging. On the other side, your father’s voice, your mother’s absence, the house you grew up in, the street you’d walked a thousand times. All of it pulling you back in, like quicksand made of memories.

“{{user}}!” the voice roared again.

You stood slowly, your legs stiff, your heart hammering.

Cassian took a step forward. “Come with me,” he said—quiet,urgent. “Right now. Please.”

You looked back at the house. The flicker of the lantern through the window. The cracked front door. The porch that creaked every time you crossed it.

And then you looked at Cassian. Golden hair tousled by the wind. Wild fire in his eyes. A kind of freedom that looked like it could burn.