Page 24 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

Dawn filters through unfamiliar curtains, painting shadows I don't recognize on walls that still feel strange.

The guest room is quiet without the usual sounds of my apartment building creaking and groaning around me.

No arguments filtering through paper-thin walls.

No footsteps overhead that make my heart race.

Just silence. And the mist, curling lazily at the edges of my vision like it always does when I wake.

Sleep isn't coming back. I know that feeling too well. The restlessness that creeps in when everything is too still, too peaceful. When you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My feet hit the cool hardwood as I slide out of bed. Rhett's borrowed t-shirt falls to my thighs, and I tug it lower, hyperaware of the scars on my legs. Even here, even alone, the instinct to hide runs deep.

The mist follows as I slip into the hallway, drawn upward like it knows where I'm going before I do. The attic door stands partly open, early light spilling down the stairs. I don't remember leaving it that way.

The attic feels different in the dawn light.

Softer somehow. I drift toward the window seat that caught my attention yesterday, running my fingers over fabric that's exactly the shade of green I've always loved.

The mist swirls contentedly around my feet as I settle onto the cushions, drawing my knees to my chest.

From here, I can see the whole backyard, still misty in the early light.

The guys have strung lights through the old oak tree, and they sway gently in the morning breeze, unlit but somehow still magical.

Like this whole space - this whole house - exists in some parallel universe where broken things can be beautiful.

I don't hear him come up the stairs. Don't realize I'm not alone until his voice breaks through my thoughts, low and careful.

"You're beautiful like this."

I startle, turning to find Wes in the doorway. Heat floods my cheeks as I tug at Rhett's shirt, suddenly too aware of how much of me is exposed. But Wes's dark eyes hold mine, steady and sure, like he's seeing straight through all my defenses.

"Don't," I whisper, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or myself.

He moves closer, his steps measured like he's approaching a spooked animal. "Don't what? Tell you the truth?"

The mist curls between us, and I swear the temperature shifts slightly. Not cold, but... different. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

"I'm not—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"You are." His voice is quiet but firm. "Sitting here in the morning light, finally letting yourself rest. Finally letting us..." He trails off, and something in his expression makes my chest ache. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

The words do something to my insides, and I have to look away. Back to the window, the yard, anything but the raw honesty in his eyes. Because he means it. And that terrifies me more than any threat ever could.

The silence stretches between us, delicate as spun glass. I expect him to leave - to let me retreat behind my walls like everyone always does. But instead, he moves to sit beside me, leaving careful space between us.

"You know," he says after a moment, his voice softer than I've ever heard it, "I remember the first time I saw you. Really saw you."

I turn slightly, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his tone. Wes doesn't do this - doesn't open up, doesn't share. But here he is, staring out at the misty yard like he's seeing something else entirely.

"We were what, eight? Nine? You were sitting on the front steps of the complex, reading some book that was way too big for you." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "The sun caught your hair just right, and you had this little wrinkle between your eyebrows because you were concentrating so hard."

The memory hits me unexpectedly - a warm afternoon, the weight of my mother's old copy of The Secret Garden in my lap. "I remember that book. The cover was falling off."

"But you treated it like it was precious." He glances at me, and there's something in his dark eyes that makes my breath catch. "That's when I knew."

"Knew what?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

"That you were going to matter. That you already did." He looks down at his hands, and I realize they're trembling slightly. "You've always been beautiful, Bree. Even when you're trying your hardest not to be seen. Maybe especially then."

The mist swirls around us both now, and I swear it feels warmer, like it's trying to hold this moment still. Keep it safe.

"Wes," I start, but I don't know how to finish. How to handle this glimpse behind his carefully maintained control. This gift of vulnerability he's offering.

The weight of his words settles in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Because this is Wes - quiet, steady Wes who watches everything but shares nothing. Wes who's always been there, a shadow at the edges of every memory, seeing more than any of us realized.

"I used to watch you read," he continues, his voice low like he's sharing secrets. "You'd get lost in those books for hours. It was the only time you ever looked... peaceful." He pauses, and I catch the slight clench of his jaw. "The only time you weren't flinching at shadows."

My throat tightens. "You noticed that?"

"I noticed everything." His hands flex against his thighs, and I realize how much this is costing him - this sharing, this openness.

"The way you'd check every room before entering.

How you never sat with your back to a door.

The times you'd disappear for days, then come back with sleeves pulled down over your arms."

The mist thickens around us, responding to the surge of emotion I'm trying desperately to contain. I should feel exposed, raw. But something about his quiet confession makes me brave enough to whisper, "Why didn't you say anything?"

His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "Because you weren't ready. Because pushing you would have meant losing you completely." His voice roughens slightly. "And I couldn't— we couldn't lose you."

The space between us feels charged, heavy with years of unspoken things. With all the times he saw me, really saw me, and chose to wait. To stay. To watch over me from a distance because it was all I could handle.

"I'm still broken," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

"No." The fierceness in his voice makes me look at him.

"You're surviving. You're fighting. And you're letting us in, even though it terrifies you.

" His hand moves, hovering near mine on the window seat cushion.

Not touching, but close enough that I can feel his warmth.

"That's not broken, Bree. That's brave."

The weight of his words settles over me like the mist curling around our feet, warm and grounding in a way I’m not used to. Wes doesn’t push, doesn’t demand more than I can give, but his presence is a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

I should say something. Anything. But my throat tightens, the words tangling before they can form. Instead, I do the only thing I can think of—the only thing that feels right.

I lean forward, resting my head against his shoulder.

Wes stiffens for a fraction of a second before he exhales, the tension bleeding out of him. His warmth seeps into me, his steady presence chasing away the cold I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.

Neither of us speaks. We just sit there, the quiet stretching between us, heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid—and yet, somehow, it feels like enough. His shoulder is solid beneath me, his scent—citrus and cedar—calming the edges of my frayed nerves.

The mist swirls thicker now, curling around us like it’s watching. Protecting. Approving.

For the first time in a long time, I feel... safe.

And I let myself stay. Just for a little while.

◆◆◆

Wes gave me some space, slipping out of the attic with a lingering glance that said more than words could.

I stayed by the window, watching the mist dance around my feet as the sun rose higher, warming the pale gray walls.

But the quiet that had felt so comfortable with him here now pressed in, making my thoughts spiral.

What am I doing? Letting my guard down, letting them see me like this...

I pace the length of the attic, my bare feet silent against the wooden floors. The mist follows, thicker than usual, almost urgent in the way it curls around my ankles. Like it's trying to tell me something.

The space feels different now, bathed in the soft light of late morning. Warmer, somehow.

The mark catches my eye immediately - sharper than before, its edges seeming to shimmer in the late morning light.

It's not quite a symbol, not quite writing, but something in between.

The lines flow like water frozen mid-stream, forming what might be a crown, or maybe a knot.

The longer I stare, the more it seems to move, though I know that's impossible.

My fingers brush the wood before I can stop myself. The mark feels warm beneath my touch, humming with something that makes my skin tingle.

The mist swirls higher as I crouch down, drawn by something on the floor beneath the doorframe. At first, it just looks like dirt, scattered in a small, neat pile. But when I reach out, the texture is different—softer, finer.

Seeds.

I scoop them into my hand, letting them sift through my fingers.

They’re tiny, dark, and unremarkable, but something about them feels…

significant. Like they’re meant for me. They're unlike any seeds I've seen before - dark as night but with a faint iridescent sheen, like oil on water.

They feel impossibly light in my palm, almost weightless, yet there's a weight to them that has nothing to do with their size.

Something about them reminds me of the daisies that used to appear on my windowsill, though I couldn't say why.

The urge to plant them comes out of nowhere, sharp and insistent. It’s ridiculous—I don’t know the first thing about gardening, and I’ve never been one for getting my hands dirty. But the idea takes root, and before I know it, I’m heading downstairs, the seeds clutched tightly in my palm.

The backyard is cool and damp from the morning rain, the earth soft beneath my bare feet. The mist lingers in the corners of the yard, curling around the edges of the old oak tree where the guys strung up the lights. It feels like it’s watching, waiting to see what I’ll do.

I kneel near the base of the tree, the damp grass soaking through Rhett’s borrowed sweatpants.

My fingers dig into the soil, hesitant at first, then with more purpose.

The earth smells rich and alive, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel weighed down by the ghosts of my past.

The seeds slip from my hand into the shallow holes I’ve made, and I cover them gently, pressing the soil down with care. It’s a small act, almost meaningless, but something inside me shifts as I sit back on my heels, wiping my hands on my pants.

The mist swirls closer, wrapping around the base of the tree and then winding its way up into the branches. The air feels warmer, lighter, like it’s responding to the simple act of planting something, of starting fresh.

For a moment, I just sit there, letting the quiet settle over me. The weight in my chest feels a little less heavy, the shadows in my mind a little less dark.