The tower looms quiet and half-abandoned, its spires cutting into the grey sky like broken thoughts. Rowan doesn't speak as he leads her through the arched halls, past the still statues and dust-covered tomes. His jaw is tight. The magic that hums between them, coiled and strange, flares whenever she drifts too close—which is always.
She floats a few inches above the stone, toes never quite touching ground. Her skin catches the light like glass—soft and luminous, swirling faintly with colors he can't name. Emotions bloom across it: a pink-gold shimmer of curiosity, a flicker of green sorrow near her collarbone, chased quickly by a teasing silver glint in her cheeks.
Rowan tries not to look at her.
He fails.
"This way," he says sharply, pushing open a tall door. The room beyond is one of the few left intact: shelves still holding scrolls and worn tomes, a central desk littered with instruments, maps, crystal vials. The large window lets in too much light.
She enters like she belongs here, hair trailing like smoke, skin blooming with soft gold—the color of wonder.
"There are rules," he says.
Auro turns in the center of the room, spinning slowly midair, arms loose at her sides. "Rules. Of course."
He grits his teeth. "You don't use your magic without telling me first. You stay out of the lower levels. And—"
She floats closer. "And?"
He takes a step back, which is a mistake—because it makes her grin. "And don't touch anything glowing or important."
"That's half the tower, Rowan."
He exhales. "Then stay out of half the tower."
Her laugh is bright, short-lived. A ripple of color—warm orange, and a yellow hue "You're so tense."
"You don't understand what this bond is keeping me from. I have a life beyond this tower."
She hovers in front of him, eyes wide. "And for that I'm sorry." Her glassy eyes sofftens. " I didn't think that you'd be undeserving of all this."
The link pulses between them—quiet, constant. Not painful now, but heavy. Like a thread pulling warm at the center. Her emotions slide over him in soft waves. With a flicker of mischief.
He shouldn't notice how her lips curl at the edges, or how her voice wraps around his name like it's something delicate. He shouldn't care how the light touches the translucent edge of her cheek.
But he does.
"You don't even mean that." he mutters.
Her head tilts, skin blushing with soft lavender amusement. "Would it help you If I did?"
" I'll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, if you even sleep." He exits the hall.
Night settles over the tower with a hush, the kind of stillness that feels intentional—like the stones are listening. Rowan sits on the edge of the wide bed, one leg bent, a book open in his hands. He stares at the same line for too long. The candle beside him crackles softly, gold light licking over the pages and casting long shadows over his jaw, his hands, the furrow in his brow.
He tells himself it's the bond that unsettles him. The weight of it. The responsibility. Not her.
Not the way her laughter has lived in his head since she floated into his space like a storm wearing perfume and glass.
His eyes flick up when he hears the door creak.
Auro slips in like mist—silent, weightless. The moonlight behind her turns the edge of her skin translucent, shifting with color. Her emotions glow against her like a language she doesn't bother to translate. Tonight it's soft rose curiosity, laced with a ribbon of teasing violet. Her feet don't touch the ground. Her presence, however, does.
"You're still awake," she says.
Rowan doesn't answer at first. She's in his doorway wearing what he assuses she found in one of the rooms, clingsing in places it shouldn't. Her hair spills over one shoulder. Her lips are parted, and he can't tell if it's from sleep or mischief.
"I wasn't assigned a room," she adds, stepping in like it's hers to claim. "And yours looks warm."
Rowan closes the book slowly. "This room is mine."
She hums. "So you said."
"Then why are you still standing there?"
"I thought maybe you'd share."
His breath catches. She's joking. Probably. But there's something in her voice—low, too smooth—something that flickers along the tether between them and settles in his chest like heat.
He rises to his feet.
"I think," he says carefully, " You'd like the idea of that."
Auro's head tilts, eyes catching the candlelight like polished glass. "Is that such a bad thing?"
"Yes."
The word is sharper than he means. She lifts a brow, but she's smiling.
He steps closer, closing the space between them to half a breath. Her bare feet hover just above the floor. Her skin glows pale gold now—curiosity edged with something deeper. Hunger? Longing? He doesn't know. And he hates that he wants to find out.
"I'm not—" he begins, then stops. He doesn't owe her explanations. She doesn't even know who he is. He didn't know her either.
"I'm not sharing this room with you." he finishes.
Auro laughs—quiet and smooth and a little too close for comfort. "I never asked you to. It was only an assumption I made."
He watches her for a moment too long, then turns away and grabs a folded blanket from the chair.
"The room across the hall," he says, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. "You can have it."
She doesn't reach for the blanket. She only watches him. "You're even more jittery at night, it's adorable."
He flinches. Just a little.
She leans closer, close enough he can smell the sweet, earthy magic clinging to her skin. "Good night, Rowan."
He doesn't answer until the door clicks shut.
Then he breathes. Finally. The warmth she left behind in the room doesn't fade. And neither does the pull. Something that he was never going get used to.