Caleb

The tea had long since dried on his palm, sticky and cooling, but Caleb didn’t notice. Not really. His mind was already turning.

Claire hadn’t returned to the residence.

He’d waited. Told himself it didn’t matter. She’d been out more often lately, taking long walks alone, asking fewer questions. But this time, something needled him. A servant mentioned she’d gone to “meet with a merchant envoy.”

A merchant envoy? She was waiting for a merchant envoy? Claire hated trading functions. Even when she and Ethan had hosted trade banquets at the Wang estate in their last life, she barely tolerated the small talk and business posturing.

So why would she go out of her way now to receive some trading envoy?

Caleb rose from the bench, cleaned his hand on the hem of his sleeve, and followed the corridor out toward the eastern pavilions—unused wings of the Wang estate, mostly given to overgrown but not necessarily messy courtyards and a few grow boxes that his mother-in-law thought were cathartic. A good place to speak with someone quietly.

He rounded the stone archway that opened onto a forgotten lotus pond and paused.

Claire was already there. She stood beneath a crooked spirit-lantern tree, laughing—actually laughing—with three figures in mottled travel robes. Their clothes were plain but tailored, clearly expensive. Layers draped for movement.

They looked like they belonged at the Imperial Palace.

That was the first thing that made Caleb’s instincts stir. Who are these jesters? Why are they meeting with his wife in secret? And why do they look so rich?

The second thing that caught Caleb's attention was how still they were. No fidgeting or idle shifting. The stillness was eerie. But the men were just calm. Balanced. Watching everything. Every breath, every glance calibrated.

And then there were their eyes; they were off. Two of the men were lean and sun-darkened, with short-cut hair and strange accents. But it was the third who really stood out.

He was tall, elegant, and motionless in a way that suggested not stillness—but containment. As if movement would unleash something dangerous. His skin was pale as chalk. His robes perfectly straight. And his eyes… they were too light, but had a strange dullness to them. As if they were...

Empty.

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He held a scroll case tucked beneath one arm, wrapped in lacquered cord and sealed with a seven-pointed glyph Caleb didn’t recognize. Claire was smiling up at him like an old friend. Caleb didn’t step forward or call out. He wanted to speak, but something about the interaction was...elaborate. He just watched instead.

And the pale man—Vael Moraine, he heard Claire say—looked up and met his gaze across the pond.

The smile he gave Caleb was small. Polite, and utterly hollow. Vael didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just nodded once in acknowledgment.

Then turned and walked off, silent as smoke. The other two followed.

Claire remained.

She exhaled, smoothed her hair, and turned—only to find Caleb still watching.

Her mouth tightened.

“Spying on me now?” she asked coolly.

“I didn’t know I needed permission to walk through our estate,” Caleb replied, voice low. “Who were they?”

“Traders.” She shrugged. “From the southern coasts. Artifact brokers.”

“You never liked traders.”

“I like people who bring useful things.” Her eyes flashed. “They deal in spirit-bound relics. Rare scrolls. Power that isn’t hoarded by the big families.”

Caleb stepped closer, voice hardening. “Power like what? Forbidden glyphs? Blood-inked seals? What was in that case?”

Claire’s chin lifted. “You sound like a bitter noble housewife. Do you care because I’m speaking to them—or because you’re not getting enough attention?”

The words struck deeper than he let show.

Claire shook her head and turned. “They’ve offered nothing illegal. And even if they had—what would it matter? You haven’t asked what I’m studying in weeks.”

“Because you don’t tell me anymore.”

“Because you stopped listening.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Her footsteps rang sharp against the flagstones as she disappeared around the corner, leaving only the faint scent of peach oil and incense in her wake.

Caleb stared after her for a long time. The breeze stirred the pond. Somewhere overhead, the spirit-lantern flickered and dimmed. He turned back toward the spot where Vael had stood, gaze narrowing.

There was something wrong with them.

Something too icky. That word isn't very manly, but that was the only word he could think of. They dressed like merchants, but no real traders moved like that. And that scroll tube—that glyph—Caleb was sure he’d felt a pulse of rejection from the wards when it passed by. Like the estate itself didn’t want it here.

And Claire?

Claire hadn’t laughed like that since their wedding.

She was different, even in the last life. Her strength had exploded out of nowhere. Her techniques—strange, patchworked things that didn’t come from any known sect. She never said where they came from. She just smiled. And grew stronger. Cold. Distant. Obsessive.

And then, eventually… broken as she ran away from the fight with the demon horde.

He’d always assumed it was Ethan’s fault. Ethan was a weakling. But he wasn't a bad guy. Maybe he just couldn't handle his wife rising to power. That he was too much in the shadow of such an amazing woman to stand on equal ground.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was something else.

Maybe it was these men, this Vael Moraine.

The name tasted like glass. Clean. Sharp. Manufactured.

Caleb clenched his fists, then forced them to relax.

He wasn’t stupid.

If these people helped Claire before, they might help her again.

But this time, he wasn’t going to be left out.

This time, he would get closer.

Not because he trusted them.

Because he didn’t.

Because whatever they were—whoever they worked for—they had power.

And Caleb was done being the brother left behind.