Grey Lantern Antiquities had a way of smelling like time.
Not dust exactly—though there was plenty of that if someone looked closely enough—but something older. A mixture of polished wood, aged paper, and faint metal that had spent too many decades sitting quietly in glass cases. The scent always hit Faylan the moment she stepped inside, wrapping around her like the shop itself was greeting her.
She slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
The bell above it chimed softly.
A normal sound. Light. Harmless.
Nothing like the heavy iron toll of the clock tower the night before.
Still, Faylan hesitated for a second on the threshold.
The shop was dim inside, the early morning fog muting the sunlight that tried to filter through the tall front windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air like slow-moving stars, drifting through the thin beams of light that made it past the glass.
“Good morning to you too,” she murmured to the empty room.
Her boots tapped softly across the worn wooden floor as she stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the damp chill of the street. Almost immediately the quiet wrapped around her, broken only by the uneven ticking of the antique clocks scattered throughout the shop.
None of them ticked at the same rhythm.
They never had.
Faylan had been working here long enough that she’d stopped noticing the sound most days, but this morning it felt louder than usual—like a dozen tiny metronomes trying to argue with each other.
She flipped the sign on the door to OPEN and slipped her jacket off, tossing it over the back of the stool behind the counter.
“Alright,” she said to the shop. “Let’s not be weird today.”
The shop did not promise anything.
Grey Lantern Antiquities wasn’t large, but it felt like a maze of carefully arranged history. Narrow aisles wound between tall wooden shelves packed with objects that had lived entire lives before arriving here. Brass telescopes, tarnished pocket watches, cracked leather journals, and delicate porcelain figurines shared space with old maps, carved boxes, and strange little curiosities whose purpose had long been forgotten.
Faylan walked the familiar path through the shop, straightening things as she went.
She adjusted a crooked painting near the door.
Wiped a faint smear from a glass display case.
Rearranged a small collection of antique compasses so they sat neatly in a row.
It was the kind of quiet routine that normally grounded her. Something about touching objects that had existed longer than she had made the world feel stable.
But this morning the steady rhythm in her chest had returned.
Not painful.
Just there.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like a clock she couldn’t see.
Faylan frowned faintly and shook out her hands as if she could physically shake the feeling away.
“You’re fine,” she muttered to herself. “You saw one weird deer and now your brain thinks it’s starring in a horror movie.”
She moved deeper into the shop.
Near the back wall stood one of Faylan’s favorite pieces: a tall antique mirror framed in dark carved oak, its glass faintly wavy with age.
She paused in front of it automatically, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Her reflection did the same—
A fraction too late.
Faylan froze.
Her pulse stumbled once.
She leaned in.
So did her reflection.
This time perfectly.
For a long moment she just stared at herself.
Dark hair pulled back. Tired eyes. A faint crease between her brows from thinking too much.
“Fantastic,” she muttered. “Love that for me.”
She stepped away before she could keep checking. Old mirrors were weird. The glass warped. Light played tricks.
That had to be it.
Probably.
She ducked behind the counter and opened the register, checking the cash drawer while the clocks ticked around her. Outside, the fog was starting to thin just enough that the outlines of passing cars occasionally appeared through the front windows.
Greythorne was waking up.
People would start wandering in soon.
Tourists looking for “haunted artifacts.”
Locals looking for conversation.
And maybe—if she was lucky—a quiet day where nothing strange happened.
Faylan leaned back against the counter and stretched her arms above her head.
“Today,” she told the empty shop firmly, “we are being normal.”
Right on cue, one of the clocks near the back wall stopped ticking.
The sudden silence made Faylan blink.
She slowly turned her head toward it.
“…rude,” she said under her breath.
But before she could move to fix it, the bell above the door chimed again.
A customer.
Faylan straightened automatically, her usual easy smile sliding into place as she looked up from behind the counter.
The bell above the door chimed once more as it settled.
The sound was softer than the clock tower’s toll, lighter, the kind that normally meant a curious tourist or a familiar face from town stepping in to browse for a few minutes. Faylan automatically straightened behind the counter, brushing her hands together like she was waking herself up fully.
“Morning,” she said, letting the practiced warmth slip into her voice.
The door creaked closed behind the customer.
Mrs. Kellerman stepped into the shop.
Faylan relaxed almost instantly.
If Greythorne had an official historian, gossip distributor, and walking archive all rolled into one, it was Mrs. Agnes Kellerman. The elderly woman had lived in town longer than anyone seemed able to remember, and she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had witnessed nearly every strange thing Greythorne had ever done.
Today she wore a lavender coat that looked a little too heavy for the season and a wide-brimmed hat that had probably been fashionable sometime before Faylan was born.
“Morning, dear,” Mrs. Kellerman said as she shuffled inside.
Faylan smiled and leaned casually against the counter.
“Looking for anything in particular today, or just making sure I haven’t accidentally sold the town’s history on eBay?”
Mrs. Kellerman sniffed.
“Someone has to keep an eye on you.”
Faylan pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Wounded.”
The older woman wandered slowly between the shelves, her sharp eyes moving across the displays like she was cataloging them.
The clocks continued ticking quietly around them, though Faylan noticed the one that had stopped earlier still sat silent on the back shelf.
She made a mental note to check the mechanism later.
Mrs. Kellerman paused near the display of antique compasses Faylan had straightened earlier.
“You keep this place tidy,” she said.
“I try,” Faylan replied. “History deserves a little respect.”
Mrs. Kellerman gave her a sidelong look.
“That’s not what you said when you tried to sell that lighthouse compass to the couple from Portland.”
Faylan grinned.
“That compass had character.”
“It had rust.”
“It had mystery.”
Mrs. Kellerman hummed in a way that clearly meant I’m not convinced.
She continued wandering the aisles slowly, fingertips brushing lightly across the edge of a wooden cabinet as she moved.
For a few minutes the shop settled into a comfortable quiet again.
Then Mrs. Kellerman stopped near the front window.
Her gaze lifted toward the distant shape of the clock tower, barely visible through the thinning fog outside.
“You hear the bell last night?” she asked casually.
Faylan blinked.
The question came out of nowhere.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It rang once when I was closing up.”
Mrs. Kellerman nodded slowly.
“Hm.”
Faylan waited.
The older woman didn’t elaborate.
“That… happens often?” Faylan asked carefully.
Mrs. Kellerman’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Not often.”
Faylan leaned forward slightly over the counter.
“But it has happened before,” she said.
Mrs. Kellerman was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, almost absently,
“The tower rang strange the night of the fire too.”
Faylan straightened.
“The fire?”
Mrs. Kellerman waved a hand dismissively.
“Long before your time.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not curious,” Faylan said.
The older woman’s eyes flicked toward her.
For a brief moment the warmth in her expression faded, replaced by something sharper.
Something cautious.
“Some stories in this town are better left where they are,” Mrs. Kellerman said quietly.
Faylan felt the hairs along the back of her neck lift.
“That sounds suspiciously like the start of a really interesting story.”
Mrs. Kellerman turned away from the window.
“Curiosity gets people into trouble, dear.”
Faylan opened her mouth to argue.
But Mrs. Kellerman had already reached for her purse.
“Well,” she said briskly, as if the conversation had never happened, “I’ll take that little brass compass by the window.”
Faylan blinked.
“The one you called rusty five minutes ago?”
Mrs. Kellerman sniffed again.
“Character.”
Faylan couldn’t help laughing as she rang up the purchase.
The register drawer slid open with a metallic clink, breaking the tension that had crept quietly into the shop.
Mrs. Kellerman tucked the compass into her purse and headed for the door.
She paused with her hand on the handle.
Then she glanced back over her shoulder.
“You keep an eye on that tower,” she said.
Faylan frowned.
“Why?”
Mrs. Kellerman’s expression softened just slightly.
“Because Greythorne tends to repeat itself.”
Then she stepped outside.
The bell chimed again as the door closed behind her.
The shop fell silent.
Faylan stood behind the counter for a moment, staring at the door.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The strange rhythm in her chest had grown stronger again.
Slowly she turned toward the window.
The fog had lifted just enough that the clock tower was clearly visible across the square.
Tall.
Silent.
Watching the town the way it always had.
Faylan crossed her arms and leaned against the counter.
“…okay,” she muttered.
“What fire?”
The bell’s last little chime faded, and with it the brief warmth Mrs. Kellerman always brought into the shop.
Grey Lantern Antiquities went back to being what it was when no one else was inside—quiet, watchful, and full of objects that felt like they were listening. Faylan stood behind the counter with her arms crossed, staring at the front door as if Mrs. Kellerman might come back in and finish her sentence like a normal person.
Because Greythorne tends to repeat itself.
“What fire?” Faylan repeated softly, the words tasting strange in her mouth.
She knew there had been a fire in the seventies. Everyone knew there had been a fire in the seventies. It was one of those pieces of Greythorne history that floated in the air like fog—there, but never solid enough to grab. A few buildings lost. Some tragedy. A story older residents glanced around before mentioning. A date that existed in town records but never in conversation.
Faylan had always assumed it was just… history. Bad luck. Old wiring in old buildings.
But the way Mrs. Kellerman had said it—tower rang strange the night of the fire too—made it sound like a warning.
Like a pattern.
The steady rhythm in Faylan’s chest pulsed again, faint but insistent.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
She made a face and uncrossed her arms, forcing herself to move. Standing still and staring at a door wasn’t going to give her answers, and it definitely wasn’t going to help her look normal if another customer walked in.
“Okay,” she muttered, sliding into motion. “We’re not spiraling in the middle of the store at nine a.m.”
She stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the silent clock near the back wall—the one that had stopped ticking right after she’d told the shop to behave.
Of course it had.
Faylan reached up and tapped the clock gently.
Nothing.
She frowned, opened the small glass door on its face, and adjusted the pendulum with careful fingers. The metal was cold against her skin. The clock gave a reluctant little jerk.
Then the ticking started again.
A soft, steady sound.
Faylan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“See?” she said to the clock, as if it could hear her. “Normal. We love normal.”
The shop continued ticking along like nothing had happened.
The morning crept forward in small pieces. Outside the front window, Greythorne slowly woke up: a woman walking her dog; a couple passing with takeout coffee; a delivery truck rolling past with its tires hissing on damp pavement. The fog thinned further, revealing the sharp edges of brick buildings and the pale stone face of the clock tower across the square.
Faylan tried not to look at it.
It didn’t help.
Her eyes kept finding it anyway, snagging on the tall dark shape like it had gravity.
The clock tower stood there as it always had, its iron hands moving steadily forward, indifferent to the way it had shaken her nerves the night before. If it had rung once off-hour, it wasn’t admitting it now.
Faylan returned to the front counter and pulled out the small ledger the shop owner kept beneath the register. She started going through yesterday’s sales, her pen scratching lightly on paper, trying to focus on numbers instead of fear.
Antique compass. Candle holder. Brass telescope. Vintage postcard set.
Normal.
Her heart continued that faint steady tapping rhythm beneath her ribs, like a reminder that normal wasn’t fully hers today.
A small movement near the front window caught her attention.
Faylan glanced up.
For a second she thought she saw a black shape on the sidewalk—low to the ground, slipping along the edge of the storefront.
Rook?
But when she leaned forward, the sidewalk was empty.
Just a smear of sunlight on damp stone.
Her breath caught anyway.
“Great,” she murmured. “Now I’m seeing phantom cats.”
A few more customers drifted in and out over the next hour. A young couple browsing old maps. A man looking for a replacement latch for a jewelry box. A tourist who asked if the shop had “anything genuinely cursed.”
Faylan smiled and told him, “Not until after lunch,” and watched his eyes light up like she’d offered him a gift.
People left satisfied. The bell chimed each time. The clocks ticked. The world kept pretending it was ordinary.
It almost worked.
Then, somewhere close to eleven, the bell above the door chimed again.
Faylan didn’t look up at first.
She was re-stacking a pile of old books on the counter, aligning their edges because if she couldn’t control the supernatural then she could at least control crooked book stacks.
The bell chimed once.
A clean, polite sound.
She set the top book down and lifted her gaze.
Two men stood just inside the doorway.
And the shop—quiet as it had been all morning—felt like it changed temperature.
Not dramatically. Not like a gust of cold air.
More like the air became… heavier. Denser. As if every object in the room had gone still to listen.
Faylan’s chest tightened instantly.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Then dropped into that same steady rhythm again, sharp and undeniable.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Her fingers curled against the edge of the counter without her telling them to.
The men were similar enough that her brain registered twins before anything else.
Same height—tall. Same bone structure—sharp, elegant, almost unfairly so. Same dark hair, though one wore his slightly longer, brushed back neatly, and the other’s fell in careless strands like he didn’t care what people thought.
But their presence wasn’t the same.
Not even close.
The one on the left stood with a calm stillness that reminded Faylan of the clock tower itself—quiet, composed, and watching. His coat was dark and fitted, the kind of thing that looked expensive without needing to announce it. His expression was neutral, but his eyes… his eyes were focused, like he was taking in the room and filing everything away.
The one on the right leaned into the doorway like it belonged to him. Like the world naturally made space. His mouth curved with faint amusement as his gaze swept the shop, then landed on Faylan with a slow, deliberate attention that made her stomach dip in a way she did not appreciate.
Faylan stayed very still.
“Hi,” she said, because her mouth apparently still functioned.
The man on the right smiled wider.
“Hello.”
His voice was smooth—warm on the surface, but there was something underneath it that felt like teeth.
Faylan forced herself not to flinch. She slid a hand back onto the counter, grounding herself with the cool wood beneath her palm.
“Welcome to Grey Lantern Antiquities,” she said, leaning on customer service like it was a weapon. “If you break something, you buy it. If you buy something, I will judge you quietly but respectfully.”
The man on the right gave a low chuckle.
The man on the left didn’t laugh, but his gaze sharpened slightly—as if Faylan’s words had confirmed something he’d been wondering.
The man on the right stepped further into the shop.
“Interesting little place,” he said, letting his eyes drift along the shelves. “Full of… old things.”
Faylan watched him carefully.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s sort of the theme.”
His attention returned to her immediately, amused.
“And you?” he asked, tone curious. “Are you… local?”
Faylan blinked once.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I live here.”
The man on the left finally spoke, his voice calmer, deeper, and far less playful.
“She’s from here,” he said, as if he already knew.
Faylan’s gaze snapped to him.
“How would you know that?”
The man on the left held her gaze for a brief moment. His eyes were dark—hard to read in the shop’s soft light. Not cold exactly. Not warm either.
Then his mouth moved in what might have been the faintest hint of a smile.
“A guess.”
The man on the right’s eyes lingered on Faylan’s face as if he were studying it. Not in a creepy way—no, it was worse than that. It was in a way that felt intimate without permission.
Faylan’s heartbeat tapped harder.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Do you always stare at people like that,” she asked, “or am I special?”
The man on the right’s smile turned dangerous.
“Maybe you are.”
Faylan felt her skin warm slightly. Irritation, she told herself. Definitely irritation.
The man on the left shifted, subtle, as though he didn’t like the direction this was going. His gaze moved over Faylan again, slower now, more careful.
Faylan didn’t miss the way his attention paused at her eyes.
Just for a fraction of a second.
His expression didn’t change, but something in his focus did.
Recognition?
Or worry?
Faylan’s stomach tightened.
“Are you looking for something specific?” she asked quickly, professional, firm.
The man on the right looked disappointed, like she’d pulled away from a game he wanted to keep playing.
“We’re just browsing,” he said.
“And… visiting,” the man on the left added quietly.
Faylan swallowed.
“Visiting,” she repeated. “From where?”
The man on the right’s gaze drifted briefly toward the clock tower outside the window, then back.
“Far,” he said.
Faylan stared at them, struggling to keep her expression neutral while her body screamed that something about them was wrong.
They looked human.
But something in the air around them felt… too still. Like standing too close to a deep lake.
The man on the right stepped closer to a shelf of old journals. His fingers brushed along the spines without touching them fully.
“You have anything about local history?” he asked.
Faylan’s throat tightened.
“Sure,” she said, and pointed toward a section near the back. “Local records, town journals, some old newspaper prints.”
He nodded, eyes still on her.
“Perfect.”
The man on the left followed, slower, gaze still tracking Faylan.
Faylan forced herself to breathe.
To act normal.
Because whatever was happening, she was not about to let two pretty strangers walk into her shop and make her feel like prey.
The twins moved toward the back shelves, their footsteps nearly silent on the wooden floor.
Faylan watched them go, the tapping rhythm in her chest so loud it felt like it belonged to someone else.
And without understanding why, she had the sharp, chilling certainty that Greythorne had just taken its first real step toward repeating itself.
For a minute, Faylan tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed the way the entire shop seemed to hold its breath around them.
She busied herself behind the counter with something that didn’t need doing—straightening a stack of receipts, wiping a clean patch of glass, rearranging the same three postcards into a neater fan. Anything to keep her hands moving, anything to keep her expression calm.
Her heart kept that strange steady tempo anyway.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The twins drifted toward the back shelves where the local history section sat. Faylan had pointed them there automatically, but now she regretted it. The local history books were full of old names and old photographs—exactly the kind of thing that had a way of reaching out and grabbing curious hands.
The man on the right—confident, amused, too intense—ran his fingers along the spines like he was looking for something familiar. He didn’t take a book down yet. He just let his attention slide over the titles.
The man on the left paused a step behind him, eyes moving more slowly, scanning the shop with the quiet, controlled focus of someone who never entered a room without memorizing every exit.
Faylan watched them from the counter as casually as she could manage.
Which wasn’t very casually at all.
After about thirty seconds, the man on the right turned back toward her as if he could feel her gaze.
“Do you get many visitors?” he asked.
Faylan lifted her eyebrows.
“Depends,” she said. “Are we counting tourists who ask if I sell vampire teeth?”
His smile flickered wider, pleased.
“And do you?”
“No,” Faylan said. “I sell rusty compasses and disappointment.”
The man on the left made a small sound—almost a laugh, but held back as if he didn’t want to give it away.
Faylan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you can laugh.”
His gaze returned to her, steady. “It happens.”
“Miracles,” Faylan muttered, then regretted it immediately because the man on the right seemed to enjoy her mouth more than he should.
He took two slow steps back toward the front, stopping beside a glass display case. His reflection caught in the glass, distorted slightly by the curved surface.
“Do you always talk like that,” he asked, tone amused, “or is this your way of scaring off customers?”
“It’s my way of testing if people have a personality,” Faylan replied. “If they don’t, I send them to the souvenir shop.”
“You think I don’t have a personality?” he asked, mock offended.
Faylan looked him over deliberately.
“You have… energy,” she said. “Like a man who knows he’s attractive and uses it as a weapon.”
The man on the right laughed openly this time, low and pleased.
“Smart,” he said. “I like smart.”
Faylan’s skin warmed again—annoyance, she told herself. Definitely annoyance.
The man on the left watched the exchange with a flicker of something that might have been caution. His gaze slid briefly toward the shop window as if checking the street outside, then returned to his brother.
“Cassius,” he said quietly.
The name was a warning wrapped in a single word.
Cassius. So that was his name.
Cassius turned his head, still smiling. “What?”
“You’re doing too much.”
Cassius’s smile sharpened. “She started it.”
Faylan blinked once.
“She,” she repeated, pointing at herself. “I started it?”
Cassius’s eyes flicked over her face again, lingering at her eyes in a way that made her want to throw something at him.
“You looked at me like you wanted to bite,” he said, and his voice dropped slightly on the last word—soft, teasing, dangerously intimate.
Faylan stared.
Then she barked out a laugh because if she didn’t laugh she might actually commit a felony.
“Okay, first of all,” she said, leaning forward slightly over the counter, “I don’t bite strangers. Second of all—who are you?”
Cassius’s grin widened like he’d been waiting for her to ask.
He turned just enough to glance at the other man.
“And you?” Faylan asked, eyes snapping toward the quiet one. “Are you going to stand there silently forever or do you have a name too?”
The man on the left held her gaze for a long moment.
Then, calmly, he stepped closer.
His movements were smooth, unhurried, and somehow more unsettling than Cassius’s open confidence. He stopped near the edge of the counter—not too close, but close enough that Faylan could see the fine details of his face: the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint line at the corner of one eye that suggested he’d smiled genuinely at least once in his life.
His eyes were dark—gray in this light, maybe. Hard to tell. They didn’t gleam with playful mischief the way Cassius’s did. They simply watched.
“Caspian,” he said.
His voice was low, controlled.
Not cold.
Just… measured.
Faylan’s heartbeat tapped harder.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Caspian and Cassius,” Faylan repeated slowly, letting the names settle. They sounded expensive. Like they belonged in old books. Like they weren’t names you heard in Greythorne unless someone was trying very hard.
Cassius placed a hand against his chest dramatically. “We’re flattered you remember.”
“You introduced yourselves two seconds ago,” Faylan said.
“That’s still impressive,” Cassius replied, unbothered.
Faylan narrowed her eyes at him again. “So… Caspian and Cassius. Visiting. Looking for local history. And flirting with the cashier for sport.”
Cassius leaned his elbow on the glass display case like it was a throne. “Maybe.”
Faylan glanced to Caspian. “Is he always like this?”
Caspian’s gaze shifted briefly to his brother, something faint and unreadable passing through his expression.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Cassius clicked his tongue. “Boring answer.”
“It’s accurate,” Caspian replied.
Faylan almost smiled.
Almost.
But then Cassius reached up and pulled a book from the history shelf, flipping it open with casual ease. Faylan’s attention snapped to the cover.
It was one of the compiled local records—photocopies of newspaper clippings, photographs, and town articles bound together in a thick volume. The kind of book that held more than it should.
Cassius flipped through pages too quickly, eyes scanning as if he were searching for something specific.
Caspian watched him with quiet tension.
Faylan took a step out from behind the counter without realizing it.
“Careful with that,” she said, sharper than she meant. “Those pages are fragile.”
Cassius paused, glancing up.
For a moment his expression softened, almost… amused in a gentler way. Like he liked the fact that she cared.
“Of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to damage anything important.”
His eyes held hers as he said it.
The words felt layered, like they weren’t only about the book.
Faylan’s stomach tightened.
Caspian’s gaze cut to Cassius, warning again, and Cassius finally closed the book with a quiet thud.
“Local history,” Cassius said lightly, “isn’t always very accurate, is it?”
Faylan crossed her arms. “Depends on who’s writing it.”
Cassius smiled. “Exactly.”
Caspian’s attention returned to Faylan, and for the first time his expression shifted—just slightly. His gaze lingered at her eyes again, and this time Faylan saw it clearly:
He recognized something.
Not her.
Something in her.
A quiet flicker of unease passed through him, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by composure.
Faylan’s skin prickled.
“Have we met?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Cassius’s smile turned sharp again, delighted.
Caspian didn’t answer immediately.
His silence stretched just long enough to make Faylan regret asking.
Then he said, calmly, “No.”
It should have been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
Because in the space between his answer and the moment he’d hesitated, Faylan had felt something shift inside her chest—like a thread pulled tight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Cassius stepped closer to the counter again, leaning in just enough to make the air between them feel too intimate.
“But,” he said softly, eyes fixed on hers, “it feels like we should have.”
Faylan’s breath caught despite herself.
Before she could respond, the bell over the door chimed again.
Faylan’s head snapped toward the entrance automatically.
And in walked Rowan Vale.
Too casual.
Too calm.
Too perfectly timed to be coincidence.
He stepped inside like he belonged there—because he did—his gaze flicking briefly to Faylan before landing on the twins.
And for the first time since they’d entered, Cassius’s smile faltered.
Just slightly.
Because he recognized Rowan too.
Faylan felt it immediately—like a string pulled too taut between three points.
Rowan stood just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle as it clicked shut behind him. The morning light framed him from behind, softening the edges of his silhouette, but there was nothing soft about the way his gaze locked onto the two men across the room.
For a split second, no one spoke.
Faylan’s eyes flicked between them.
Rowan—relaxed posture, shoulders loose, expression easy.
Caspian—still, composed, watching.
Cassius—smile barely there now, like something had interrupted his favorite game.
Faylan’s heartbeat tapped harder.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Didn’t know we had company,” Rowan said finally.
His voice was light.
Too light.
Faylan knew him well enough to hear the edge underneath it.
Cassius straightened slightly from where he’d been leaning on the counter, his attention shifting fully to Rowan now. Whatever interest he’d had in Faylan hadn’t disappeared—but it had been… redirected.
“Small town,” Cassius replied smoothly. “Hard not to run into new people.”
Rowan’s mouth curved faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Depends on who you’re looking for,” he said.
Faylan blinked.
Okay.
So that was not normal small talk.
Her gaze snapped between them again, irritation starting to mix with the unease building in her chest.
“Am I missing something,” she said, stepping slightly out from behind the counter, “or are we all speaking in vague metaphors now?”
Cassius’s smile flickered back to life, though it had changed—sharper now, more deliberate.
“Just getting to know the locals,” he said, glancing at her briefly before returning his attention to Rowan. “Isn’t that right?”
Rowan didn’t answer right away.
He moved instead.
One step forward.
Then another.
Until he stood just off to Faylan’s side—close enough that she could feel the faint chill that always seemed to cling to him, subtle against the warmth of the shop.
Not touching.
But present.
Protective.
Faylan’s brows pulled together slightly.
That was new.
Rowan rested his hands casually in his jacket pockets, posture loose, but the angle of his body had shifted—just enough to place himself between Faylan and the twins without making it obvious.
Except Faylan noticed.
Of course she did.
Caspian noticed too.
His gaze moved between Rowan and Faylan, something unreadable passing through his expression—calculation, maybe. Or recognition of the same protective instinct, mirrored in a way he didn’t like.
Cassius let out a soft breath, almost amused.
“Well,” he said, glancing toward the door, “we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”
Faylan blinked.
That was it?
After all that weird tension?
They were just… leaving?
Cassius turned back to her, and just like that, the intensity of his attention snapped back into place. It was almost dizzying how quickly he shifted between people—like he was choosing where to focus, where to press.
“I think we’ll be seeing each other again,” he said.
Faylan folded her arms.
“Bold assumption,” she replied.
Cassius’s smile deepened, pleased.
“I don’t make assumptions,” he said softly. “I make observations.”
His gaze dropped briefly—just for a second—to her wrist where it rested against her arm, then lifted again.
Faylan’s pulse jumped.
Tap. Tap.
Not steady this time.
Uneven.
Caspian stepped forward then, cutting through whatever Cassius had been about to say next. His presence wasn’t loud, but it shifted the balance immediately.
“Thank you,” he said to Faylan, voice calm. “For your help.”
Faylan blinked at him.
“I… didn’t actually help you with anything.”
Caspian’s mouth curved slightly.
“You did,” he said.
Before she could ask what that meant, he turned toward the door.
Cassius lingered a second longer.
His gaze met Rowan’s.
Whatever passed between them in that look was silent—but not subtle.
Recognition.
Challenge.
Something older than whatever this moment was supposed to be.
Then Cassius looked back at Faylan one last time.
“Try not to sell anything too interesting before we come back,” he said.
Faylan snorted. “No promises.”
Cassius laughed softly, then turned and followed his brother out the door.
The bell chimed again.
And just like that—
They were gone.
The shop exhaled.
The clocks resumed their uneven ticking like nothing had happened.
The air felt lighter.
Faylan stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door.
“…what,” she said slowly, “was that.”
She turned toward Rowan.
He hadn’t moved.
His gaze was still fixed on the door, expression unreadable now that the casual mask had slipped just enough.
“Friends of yours?” Faylan asked.
Rowan didn’t answer right away.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Then, slowly, he looked at her.
The easy smile came back.
Almost perfectly.
“First time I’ve seen them,” he said.
Faylan stared at him.
“You’re lying.”
Rowan blinked once, like he hadn’t expected her to say it out loud.
“Harsh,” he said lightly.
Faylan took a step closer, narrowing her eyes.
“I know your ‘I’m pretending this is normal’ face,” she said. “And that was your ‘something is definitely not normal and I don’t want to talk about it’ face.”
Rowan huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
“You have a very specific catalog of my expressions.”
“Answer the question,” Faylan said.
Rowan’s gaze softened slightly, but he didn’t look away this time.
“They’re just passing through,” he said.
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Faylan opened her mouth to argue again—
—and stopped.
Because the steady rhythm in her chest had returned.
Her eyes flicked toward the window.
The clock tower stood in the distance.
Silent.
Watching.
Faylan’s stomach twisted.
Something in Greythorne had shifted.