Chapter 19 - The Least I Can Give You
The morning sun filtered gently through the tall windows of Caelan Thorne’s office, casting pale gold upon the ordered stacks of parchment and the polished surface of his desk. The usual bustle of the Defenders Guild hummed faintly beyond the walls, but within, it was quiet save for the soft rustle of a report Caelan had yet to finish reading.
A knock came at the door, two firm taps, unhurried but purposeful. Caelan looked up, already knowing who it would be. "Come in," he called. Devon stepped through the door, dressed as ever in a tasteful blend of deep jewel tones and layered linen. He carried the scent of roasted coffee and late nights, though there was an unusual tension in his shoulders.
Caelan raised an eyebrow. "This is a rare sight. I don’t believe you’ve ever set foot in here before noon."
Devon offered a brief smile. "And yet, here I am."
"Let me guess. You want to ask about my brother."
Devon’s smile faltered. "How is he?"
"Alive, thanks to Neia’s quick hands and more healing magic than I care to count," Caelan said, leaning back in his chair. "I told him to stay home today. Ordered it, in fact. He’ll be sore for a week, if not more, but he’ll recover."
Devon nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. He stepped closer and rested one hand on the back of the visitor’s chair before him, though he did not sit. Caelan watched him carefully. "But that’s not why you’re really here," he said. "Out with it, Devon."
Devon hesitated, glancing once toward the closed door behind him. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, more precise. "There’s something you need to know. About last night. About the collapse."
Caelan’s eyes narrowed slightly. He set his quill aside.
Devon continued. "In my vision, I didn’t just see the tower fall. I saw something else. Just before the explosion."
Caelan leaned forward slightly. "Go on."
"There was a group near the base of the tower. Hooded, in matching robes of some sort. Not performers. Not festival workers. They were standing too still, watching the structure like they were waiting for something. None of them looked familiar. They didn’t belong there."
Caelan’s expression darkened. "You think they caused it."
"I do. I can’t say who they are yet, or what exactly they were planning, but that blast wasn’t an accident. Someone planned it. Premeditated, careful. The collapse was a cover for something, or a message."
For a long moment, Caelan said nothing. The morning light no longer felt quite so warm.
"Then we’ll find them," he said at last, voice low and sure. "Whatever it takes."
Devon nodded once, the weight of what he had seen settling between them like a shadow stretching with the day.
Neia sat at her desk in the quiet research office, her arm wrapped in a bandage, her eyes trained on the pages before her though her mind was leagues away. The familiar scent of dried leaves and ink usually brought comfort, but this morning it felt distant, like the faint echo of a song she could no longer hear. The guilt sat heavy in her chest. She had barely slept, and though she had come in out of habit, she found herself unable to focus on even the simplest of notes. All she could think of was Gideon. The sound of the tower falling. The weight of his body in her lap as she tried to call him back to her with every spell she knew.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder.
Neia blinked and turned to see Tessa standing beside her, eyes warm with concern. Yvaine Durnholde stood just behind, arms folded with her usual elegant poise. A striking woman of noble bearing and unshakable confidence, Yvaine exuded the kind of polished grace that made her presence known even in silence. Despite being quite young, she was already one of the most senior researchers in their department, a fact that even Tessa, who was Neia’s senior, often brought up with admiration.
"You’re not fooling anyone, you know," Tessa said softly. "Come on. Lunch. The café across the street. My treat."
Neia hesitated for a moment, but nodded. The three of them gathered their things and stepped into the sunlight. Soon they were seated by the window of a small but charming café, the scent of coffee and fresh pastries softening the edge of the day.
"Are you alright?" Tessa asked, stirring a cup of rose petal tea. "I’m so sorry it happened to you. Especially on your first festival."
Yvaine nodded. "We were there too, but on the far side of the square. We didn’t even hear the explosion until the panic had already started."
Neia looked down at her untouched drink. "It all happened so fast. One moment we were dancing by the stage, and the next… everything came down."
She recounted the story quietly, eyes focused on the steam curling up from her cup. She told them about how Gideon shielded her with nothing but his own body, how he had been barely conscious, completely battered and bruised when they found him soon after. Her voice trembled as she said, "It should have been me. He didn’t have to do that. I barely knew him. And now… I don’t even know if he’s alright."
Tessa reached across the table, taking her hand. "So go visit him."
Neia blinked. "I couldn’t. That would be—"
"Improper?" Yvaine interjected. "Girl, that boy damn near died for you. The least you could do is bring him dinner."
Tessa laughed. "Exactly. You have his number, don’t you? Just send him a message on your crystalink*. You’ll feel better once you see he’s alright."
Neia pulled her communicator from her pocket, the glass screen catching the afternoon light. Her thumb hovered uncertainly over the display.
"I don’t want to be a bother…" she mumbled.
Yvaine gave her a look. The kind that only elder sisters and formidable women of quiet authority could master. It said, without a single word, that there would be no arguing.
With a small breath, Neia opened the message thread and began to type.
Whatever happened next, she needed to see him. If only to quiet the storm in her own heart.
At that very moment, in a quiet apartment tucked above one of Korth’s calmer avenues, Gideon Thorne lay sprawled awkwardly across his worn leather sofa. The soft light from the overcast sky filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting shadows on his rumpled blanket and the empty mug of lukewarm tea at his side.
He had dozed off again. Painkillers and fatigue had seen to that. So, when the soft chime of his crystalink pulsed across the room, it took him a long moment to register it. Groaning, he pushed himself up to sit, every muscle protesting the effort. He winced as his back caught sharply. But when he finally picked up the device and saw Neia’s name glowing on the screen, he sat a little straighter. Too fast.
"Argh," he muttered through clenched teeth, pressing a hand to his ribs.
Her message was simple. Just a quiet inquiry about how he was doing.
Gideon, suddenly far more awake, composed a reply with the deliberate care of someone who rarely messaged anyone outside his brother or Devon. He told her he was fine. A bit sore. Nothing worth worrying over. Then, almost too belatedly, he asked how she was. He sent the message. And waited.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. When her response arrived, he opened it quickly. She said she was alright too.
He stared at the screen, trying to think of something to say. Anything. He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted. Made a face. Looked to Sir Pounceforth, perched on the windowsill like a statue of unimpressed judgment.
And then, before he could manage another draft, another message from Neia appeared.
She told him she felt terrible about what happened to him. That she wanted to make it up to him somehow.
“Would you please let me cook you dinner at least?”
Gideon blinked.
"At my place?" he typed.
She replied almost immediately. Yes. If he didn’t mind.
He stared at the screen. Then at Sir Pounceforth.
"What do I do?!"
The cat flicked its tail.
Gideon groaned and launched into motion, sweeping up discarded clothing, opening windows, shaking out throw blankets, and lighting the scented candle Devon had given him last solstice. It wasn’t until he stood in the kitchen, holding a pair of mismatched tea towels and wondering which was the least embarrassing, that he realised he had not replied.
He turned to the cat. "Why didn’t you say something?!"
Sir Pounceforth offered only a slow blink.
Back at the café, Neia sat frozen, unable to bring herself to open her next notification. She passed the communicator to Tessa with a pleading expression. Tessa read it. And squealed.
"He said yes," she told Neia, bouncing in her seat. "He says you can come over in the evening. But he doesn’t want you to cook for him. He wants you to cook together."
Yvaine smirked into her coffee. "How domestic."
The three of them descended swiftly into excited chatter, already discussing what to buy and how they would walk her there after work, so she did not lose her nerve. It was only when Tessa checked the time and gasped that they realised they were about to be late.
"Asa is going to murder us," she muttered, grabbing her coat.
They rushed from the café, half-running, half-giggling, their boots clacking against the cobblestones as they disappeared into the noon-lit streets.
*Author’s Note: Crystalinks are arcane-powered communication devices developed through collaborations between artificers and wizards, particularly at Morgrave University and within House Cannith. Shaped like sleek, palm-sized slabs of light metal with a smooth glass surface, their 'screens' function as magical projections rather than physical displays. Each Crystalink is attuned to the arcane signature of the city it was activated in. As a result, communication is only possible between users currently located within the same city. For example, a message sent from Korth cannot reach someone in Sharn, as the devices are tied to separate arcane networks.