Ian looked back up, and now Cera was sitting at the far edge of the courtyard, by the tree where the lantern never stayed lit. His posture was perfect — straight back, hands folded, feet crossed at the ankle. He wasn't reading, or sketching, or waiting for anyone.
Just sitting.
Like he'd always been there.
Ian slowed. He didn't mean to, but something about the stillness made it feel like noise to keep walking.
Cera looked up.
"Ian," he said, like he already knew what the conversation was.
Ian stopped a few paces away.
"You're not Cala's brother."
A beat.
Cera blinked slowly, once.
"I understand why you'd think that."
Ian stared. "I don't think it. I know it. You transferred in last week. From the Church. They said so."
Cera nodded, like that helped.
"Yes."
Ian's voice stayed steady. "Then how can you say something like that?"
Cera tilted his head, not quite puzzled — more like… thoughtful.
"She remembers me."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
Silence.
"She tells me things," Cera said after a moment. "She says the bell doesn't ring out loud. She says it hums in her ribs. That when it gets too loud, she can't draw."
Ian's stomach turned. "When did she tell you that?"
Cera looked up at the sky. It was pale and open, the clouds breaking into narrow lines like someone had combed them.
"I don't remember," he said. "But it's something brothers are supposed to know, isn't it?"
Ian blinked. "You're not—"
"I'm not trying to replace him," Cera said quietly. "You said that to Tomas. That replacing someone isn't helping."
Ian's pulse quickened. "You were listening?"
"You were loud," Cera said. "But I liked what you said. It meant you cared about her."
"I do."
Cera nodded. "I know."
There was a long pause.
"She trusts you," Cera said. "That matters."
Ian shifted. "She trusts me because I listened. Because I didn't treat her like she was sick."
Cera didn't move. "I don't think she's sick either."
Another pause. The wind picked up, just slightly.
"She stopped making dolls," Cera said, more to himself now. "Maybe she ran out of faces to give them."
Ian's throat tightened. "You weren't here when she did that."
Cera looked at him again.
"No," he said softly. "But you kept the last one."
Ian's breath caught.
"You didn't throw it out," Cera added, voice calm. "Even when it frightened you."
A beat passed.
"I think that means you wanted to understand."
He stood. Dust brushed off his coat without effort.
"Thank you, Ian," he said.
"For what?"
"For caring for her while she was alone."
A faint smile.
"But she's not alone now."
And then he walked away, without waiting for agreement.
Ian stayed by the tree.
He didn't move for a long time.
Cera didn't walk far.
He stopped by the edge of the fountain, hands resting behind his back. The wind caught his sleeves. For a second, he looked like part of the statue there — unmoving, symbolic, vaguely misplaced.
"I used to think she was drawing ghosts," he said, not turning around.
Ian stiffened.
Cera kept speaking, gentle as ever. "The way she shaded the faces. Blank eyes. All those circles. But they weren't ghosts, were they?"
Ian didn't respond.
"They were ideas. Pieces. People, she couldn't quite finish."
A pause.
"Maybe that's why you liked them."
Ian stepped closer. Not intentionally. Just far enough to hear better.
"I didn't say I liked them."
"No," Cera said. "But you didn't say they were wrong either."
He turned then, slow, deliberate.
"There's something beautiful about things that don't resolve. That never have to be proven."
Cera looked at him. Really looked.
"Leor doesn't have to be real," he said. "He just has to feel like he should've been."
Ian's chest tightened. "She's not making him up."
"I didn't say she was."
"But you—"
"I'm saying you like that she did."
That stopped him.
"You like that no one else believes her. Because it makes you the one who does."
Ian's mouth opened, but the words felt jagged. "That's not—"
"You get to be kind. Protective. Righteous."
Cera's voice didn't shift. Not once.
"You're not using her. Of course not. You'd never do that."
He stepped closer.
"But you're not helping her either, are you?"
Ian took half a step back, suddenly unsure of where he was standing.
Cera smiled again. It wasn't cold. It was something worse—warm, like shared grief.
"You want her to stay broken just long enough that you matter to her."
Ian's breath caught.
"You wouldn't admit that," Cera said. "And I wouldn't ask you to."
The wind had stopped. The courtyard felt too quiet.
"I think you're kind," Cera added, softly now. "I think you're good at finding people who hurt just enough to need you."
Ian's hands curled into fists. He didn't remember doing it.
"Don't worry," Cera said. "I'm not angry."
A pause.
"I used to be like that too."
He turned again. This time he did start to walk.
But before he disappeared around the corner, he added, almost to himself:
"She doesn't need saving, Ian. Just someone who won't question the silence."
Cera hadn't gone far.
He stood just past the chapel doors now, half in shadow, half in the gray light that leaked through the glass. When Ian followed — and he did follow — it felt less like a decision and more like gravity.
Cera turned slightly, as if he'd been waiting.
"Ian," he said again. Like they were still mid-sentence.
Ian's voice was low. "You don't know her."
Cera gave a faint smile. "I know what she looks like when she thinks no one sees her."
Ian's fists clenched. "You're lying."
"No," Cera said. "I just listened sooner."
The sentence wasn't cruel. That's what made it worse.
"You don't get to say things like that," Ian snapped. "You don't get to act like—like you were there."
"I don't have to act," Cera said gently. "I just have to be close enough to what she remembers."
He took a half step forward.
"I'm not the one making this hard."
Ian stared. His pulse loud in his ears.
"You are," Cera said. "Because she trusts you. And you don't know what to do with it."
Ian's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to help her."
Cera nodded. "By making her remember more? Or by needing her to forget slower?"
Ian's breath caught. "That's not what this is."
"I think it is."
He said it so softly, it almost didn't land. But it did.
And then, with the gentlest voice imaginable:
"You liked being her secret, didn't you?"
Ian blinked.
"She whispered things to you no one else heard," Cera said. "And you held onto them like they were proof of something. Not because you understood them. Because you liked that she gave them to you."
Ian stepped forward.
"You like her like this," Cera said, still unmoving. "Half-lit. Hurt. Dependent."
"Shut up."
Cera's head tilted.
"I think it makes you feel chosen."
That was it.
The hit wasn't planned. It wasn't clean.
Just sudden — a low shove, the kind that starts with the fist but ends with the whole body behind it. Cera didn't fall, not quite, but the blow hit his shoulder hard enough to knock him into the doorframe.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Cera looked up.
His face hadn't changed.
"I understand," he said softly.
And he meant it.
Cera didn't flinch.
He straightened, slowly, brushing dust from the front of his sleeve. His expression hadn't changed not hurt, not surprised. Just… still.
"I understand," he said again.
And somehow, that landed harder than the hit.
Ian's chest was heaving. He didn't know when he'd started breathing like that. Or why his hands wouldn't open.
A soft scrape echoed down the hall.
Not from Cera.
Ian turned.
At the far end of the corridor, just beyond the archway of flickering candlelight — Isaac.
Leaning against the wall. Hands in his pockets. Watching.
He didn't speak.
Just blinked once. Slow. Measuring.
Ian swallowed hard.
Cera followed his gaze.
"Does he know?" he asked, voice so low it might have been a thought.
Ian stared at him.
"About what it feels like," Cera went on. "To be someone else's anchor. Until you realize they were sinking the whole time."
Isaac's eyes didn't move.
Ian's voice was thin. "Don't."
But Cera wasn't looking at him anymore.
He stepped back, posture perfect again, not a crease in his collar.
"Thank you for being honest," he said, nodding slightly. "It helps me understand how to comfort her."
He turned toward the hall, walking slowly toward the arch — toward Isaac — without a trace of fear.
When he passed him, Isaac didn't say a word.
But his eyes followed him all the way down the corridor, until he disappeared around the bend.
Then, after a long pause, Isaac looked at Ian.
Just looked.
Not disappointed. Not angry. Just quiet.
Like he'd expected it to happen eventually.
And then he turned, and left.
Ian stayed where he was. The echo of the shove still in his bones. The silence around him suddenly heavy with things he hadn't meant to say.
Ian walked home slower than usual.
The sky was colorless — not gray, not blue. Just washed out. Pale and hollow, like the light had thinned with everything else.
His coat felt too heavy. The wind too quiet. The streets too wide.
He kept replaying the conversation.
Not the words exactly, but the way Cera had said them. Like he already knew the ending, and Ian was just reading the wrong chapter.
You like her like this.
You want to be chosen.
I understand.
He hadn't defended himself. Not once.
He hadn't needed to.
Ian's jaw tightened. His knuckles still ached.
It didn't make sense.
None of it did.
Cera wasn't just new — he was unplaceable. The kind of new that didn't start with an arrival. He'd just… been there. Smiling. Listening. Already folded into routines no one remembered teaching him.
Ian passed a flickering lantern and stopped.
Turned.
There was a carved stone on the wall nearby — a list of student assignments from the last planting cycle. Names etched by year. Grouped by class.
He scanned the list. Slowly.
Cala. Row three. Marked as independent.
No Leor.
No Cera.
Not even in the most recent entries.
Ian felt a chill crawl through his ribs.
He turned back toward the road and kept walking, faster now.
There were files at the school. He knew that. Student rosters. Ritual logs. Transfer papers. Locked behind Father Gaius's quarters, but not impossible to reach.
He didn't know what he was looking for yet.
Only that someone had written Cera's name down.
And whoever had, wanted him to be believed.
Ian shoved his hands into his coat pockets and kept walking.
The wind picked up behind him.