Page 8 of The Last Remaining Light

Agatha leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking beneath the movement. “That… is the question scholars have argued over for centuries.”

Elowynn stared down at the diagrams again, irritation building beneath her skin. She hated unanswered questions. Hated them more than almost anything.

A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the library as the doors opened. Elowynn looked up to see Caelyn step inside carrying an armful of firewood against his chest. She noted him wearing that worn cloak of his. It was starting to fit him better, but it was looking worse for wear.

Caelyn had changed over the last turning too. Not enough that was blatantly obvious, but enough she had noticed from the friendship they had found in one another. He had grown taller and broader through the shoulders from constant work around the abbey grounds, while his dark hair had become long enough to curl slightly near his collar whenever rain dampened it. There was still something melancholic about him, but it no longer felt entirely like sadness. It felt like still water hiding deeper currents beneath the surface.

Caelyn slowed his steps upon noticing her; it was subtle enough that most were not likely to even notice.

But Elowynn did. She always did.

“You tracked snow across my floors,” Sister Agatha informed him curtly.

Caelyn glanced downward at his boots. “…Yes, Sister. My apologies.”

“Do you intend to remove it before it turns into a puddle?” she asked, brow lifting.

“Yes, Sister,” he nodded.

“Excellent. We survive another sun without worrying if I will break my hip from slipping on a puddle of melted snow,” she drawled.

Elowynn let loose a small snort before she could stop herself. Caelyn looked toward her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a shadow of a smile before he crossed toward the hearth. He knelt beside the dying embers and carefully fed fresh wood into the hearth. Elowynn had noted how the light flickered across the less-than-boyish angles of his face while snow melted from the shoulders of his cloak.

“Caelyn,” Agatha said suddenly.

He looked up without hesitation. “Yes, Sister?”

“Come here,” she demanded.

Elowynn narrowed her eyes suspiciously toward Agatha, but Caelyn obeyed. Standing, he brushed his hands off on his cloak and crossed back to the table while Agatha rotated the open book toward him.

“Explain why the sequence fails,” she pointed.

Elowynn blinked at this, confused. “He does not study resonance theory.”

“Nonsense! He studies constantly,” Agatha corrected. “He simply lacks your talent for announcing it as often.”

Elowynn gaped and was unable to decide if she should be insulted or amused. But she couldn't deny that she found this deeply entertaining.

Caelyn, on the other hand, looked quite uncomfortable as he shifted on his feet. Even his bronzed cheeks looked a little darker.

For several moments, he stared down at the diagrams. Then his brows pulled downward.

“The pressure line is wrong,” he said.

Elowynn sat upright so quickly her chair scraped against the floor. She hadn’t expected him to know enough to question the theory—let alone correct it.

Caelyn pointed carefully toward the center notation. “The harmonic balance changes unevenly after the resonance surge.” His expression turned thoughtful as he tilted his head.

“The surge reaches this convergence line first. If the current was already weakened—” He moved his finger along the diagram, pointing to an anchor glyph. “Then the collapse would spread outward from here.”

A hush filled the library. Elowynn’s lips parted in surprise.

Agatha, however, looked unbearably pleased.

Meanwhile, Caelyn appeared to regret speaking at all. He cleared his throat before muttering, “I uh… should probably go and… finish the firewood.”

“You should probably remain where you are,” Agatha replied when Caelyn tried to back away.