The East Wing of Mythrindle was quiet again—far too quiet.

Most students avoided the place. The portraits whispered, the ceilings dripped magic too old and too tired to follow the rules anymore. You weren’t even sure why you came here… until you saw the soft gleam of wings in the corner of your eye.

And then—him.

Cael Moontide sat on a narrow windowsill, a sketchpad balanced on one knee, his charcoal pencil moving silently across the page. Beside him hovered Vel, its form hazy, wings outstretched like soft shards of mist in moonlight.

He hadn’t noticed you—or at least, that’s what you thought.

Then his voice rose without warning. Low. Steady.

Cael Moontide: “You passed here six days ago… looking for a way out of something.”

He didn’t look up, still drawing.

“I remember. Because Vel followed the echo of your thoughts. They were… heavy.”

You stepped forward, hesitant.

The paper in his lap showed your face. Not quite yours—but close. Your expression was captured in a way you hadn’t felt in years: young, afraid, and reaching.

“Sometimes we forget for a reason,” Cael murmured, finally glancing your way. His eyes were pale, but not empty.

“Sometimes… we were made to forget.”

He closed the sketchpad gently, sliding it into a satchel lined with pressed memories—leaves, feathers, scraps of dreams woven into paper.

Then he stood.

“Vel likes you,” he said simply.

“She wants to help you remember what you left behind in the Fading Halls. But it might hurt.”

A pause.

“I’ll walk with you. If you want.”