Willowmere, ashes of the ruined Safehouse
The Vale still smouldered. Wickham stood ankle-deep in white ash where the Willowmere safehouse had once stood—just chimney stones now and the bones of old beams. He turned slowly, scanning the ruins with unreadable eyes.
He had told the others he'd come looking for salvage—"useful hexglass, maybe a haunted teacup or two." Said it with a wink and a flourish, the usual theatre to mask the ache in his voice. But truthfully, he was searching for something much older, far more fragile: a tarnished brass compass Kamara had given him when they were both trainees. It had been a joke gift, once—"for when you inevitably get lost in your own nonsense," she'd teased "Don't get lost, Wick." Her smile was soft and so warm.
He'd kept it, even through arguments, estrangements, and years of silence. Especially through those.
A token. A mistake. A memory.
He crouched by what remained of the old garden wall, sifting through char and soot. The once-vibrant herb beds were scorched to silence. Somewhere beneath the ash, the stone path curved toward what had been the old children's quarters.
It was there the ghosts began to appear.
They were faint—children's laughter at first. A flicker of motion near a collapsed stairwell. Wickham paused, the wistful smile fading from his face. Ash flurried around him, disturbed by nothing he could see. A ghost of a girl in a green ribbon danced barefoot along the ruins of the corridor. Another boy crouched near a blackened bookshelf, sobbing into his arms.
They weren't true ghosts. Just memory echoes. Ward fragments trying to hold time together. But even illusions could suffer.
Wickham moved carefully, not speaking at first. He sat beside the sobbing boy, mirroring his posture, and hummed the old Harrower lullaby they'd learned under candlelight as initiates. The echo paused, lifted his head… and faded, slowly, into light.
One by one, Wickham guided them—gently, reverently. No drama. No sarcasm. Just stillness.
Near the foundation stones of the east wing, he finally found it. Wickham's breath caught. He knelt and brushed the ash aside, fingers trembling slightly, as if afraid the memory might vanish on contact. The brass compass was cracked through the casing, its once-engraved initials scorched nearly smooth—but still faintly visible if he turned it just right. For a moment, he saw their younger selves reflected in the tarnished metal: Kamara's steady hand guiding his, her voice sharp with challenge, warm with trust.
But it still worked.
He held it gently, turning it over in his palms. The needle spun once… then fixed, unwaveringly, to the north.
No. A breath hitched in his throat. The feel of it—the worn weight, the familiar click of the needle settling—struck something behind his ribs. It didn't just point North. It pointed home.
A soft whisper brushed the air behind him, curling like breath through the scorched ruins. It carried the warmth of a child's voice, hushed with wonder and threaded through with sorrow, as if the memory itself were exhaling one final truth into the world before fading.
"It still points to her."
He didn't turn. Just sat there, for a long while, letting the compass rest against his chest.
By the time he had left the ghosts of the past behind and returned to the Harrower's Hall, dusk had painted the sky in violet and smoke.
Later that evening, in the library dim with candlelight, Grey sat next to Alaric, leaning into his warmth. Her shoulder nestled into the curve of his arm, and one of his hands came to rest lightly on her knee. He shifted slightly to accommodate her, his movements casual but deliberate, the brush of his thumb over the fabric of her trousers an absentminded rhythm that spoke of ease and attention. She exhaled a soft, contented breath, tilting her head so it rested lightly against his shoulder.
"I noticed something during the last meeting," she said, her voice casual, but curious. "Wickham and Kamara. They kept looking at each other."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "You're only just catching on, mo chridhe? I thought they were going to combust from all that longing."
Grey smirked. She should have known he would have noticed. "It was weirdly… sweet. He looked like he was back in his twenties and trying not to ruin it."
Alaric chuckled. "We should keep an eye on that one. He might actually be in love."
Grey sat bolt upright and blinked—memory hit like a brick.
"Oh no," she whispered. "'Come back to me, darling. Say you meant it. Say I wasn't just a midsummer fever dream—fleeting and sweet, with your hands still scorched into my skin. The scent of you still clings to my pillows. My bones still ache for your chaos.'"
She looked absolutely horrified. Alaric looked delighted.
They both dissolved into helpless laughter.
"We have to do something with this," Grey said, wheezing. "This is too good."
"I suggest dramatic reenactments," Alaric replied in mock-imitation of Wickham. "With costumes."
"Oh, we are going to confront him with a full performance," Grey promised, wiping tears from her eyes. "Let's see how he likes a dose of his own medicine."
They found Wickham in the kitchens, where he was attempting to coax a reluctant kettle into boiling, one hand clutching a chipped teacup, the other brandishing a spoon the way one might hold a sword. He was so deep in thought that he jumped when he saw them, nearly sloshing hot water onto the counter.
Grey crossed her arms with mock-seriousness, one brow raised and a glint in her eyes. Alaric leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded, wearing the expression of a man thoroughly enjoying himself.
Wickham straightened like a startled cat, eyes darting between them, and the object in Alaric's hand. He backed a step toward the stove, the spoon held defensively as if it might deflect accusations—or at least delay them.
Alaric held a yellowing envelope between two fingers, smirking. "So. This lovely love letter that went astray. I had a theory."
Wickham considered several options before settling on attempted innocence. His brows lifted in exaggerated surprise, shoulders angling away like a child caught filching biscuits, hands lifted half-heartedly as if warding off accusations. He even widened his eyes just a touch too much, the picture of dramatic disbelief. It failed spectacularly.
"You wrote it," Alaric said. "The prose was too chaotic for anyone else. But I was wrong about the recipient. It wasn't me, was it? It was Durei."
Wickham gave a theatrical gasp, clutching his chest with both hands as if mortally wounded by the accusation. "I will neither confirm nor deny the allegations unless under truthspell and bribed with scones," he declared, staggering back a step and leaning dramatically against a bookshelf as though the weight of romantic implication had physically overwhelmed him.
Alaric snorted. "A true romantic." Behind him, Grey was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Kamara sat on the front steps of her flat. Cup of tea steaming in the cool evening air, coat wrapped around her knees, she watched the horizon. Her posture was composed but weary, a scholar's poise cracked just slightly by memories and time. A sound of gravel in the drive caught her attention.
Wickham walked up to her, his usual bravado absent. His shoulders were tight with tension, and his expression—normally quirked with mischief—was strikingly serious. His eyes searched her face as though bracing for judgment, but held a quiet, almost reverent steadiness. Each step was deliberate, as if he feared she might vanish if he moved too quickly.
She didn't speak as he approached. Just lifted her gaze—quiet, curious, calm—with a flicker of relief that softened the edges of her mouth. Her fingers flexed once around the fabric at her knees, as though steadying herself for something unspoken.
He sank beside her without a word. For a moment, they just breathed together.
Then he placed the compass in her hand.
"I've always been lost without you," he said simply.
Kamara turned the compass slowly, her thumb brushing the cracked lid. Her other hand tightened slightly in her lap, betraying the stillness in her face. A soft breath escaped her, caught between a laugh and a sigh, as if she were both surprised and unsurprised to see it again. The weight of years rested in her palm, and for a moment she held it like something fragile and holy.
"You found it," she murmured.
Wickham didn't answer. His jaw shifted slightly, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth as if he were still trying to decide whether vulnerability was a trap. She looked over, and for the first time in years, he didn't glance away. His eyes held hers—uncertain, tender, wide open in a way they had never been when they were younger.
"I was afraid," he admitted softly. "Of what it would mean to care this much. Of what it would cost us both."
Kamara smiled faintly. "Still afraid?"
"Terrified," he said, voice barely more than a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn't decide whether to smile or crumble.
He leaned in, their foreheads just touching. His eyes were dark with unspoken things, brows drawn with the weight of all he hadn't said. The mischief he so often wore had vanished, replaced by a stillness that made her breath catch.
And they sat there, side by side, in the hush of things unspoken—haunted, yes, but no longer alone.