The café had settled into its usual rhythm after Lucien's departure. Light spilled through the windows, catching flecks of dust in the air. The chatter of customers resumed, the clink of cutlery returning to the foreground. But Lily's mind remained far away—still back at that table, still hearing Lucien's voice.
She didn't notice the old man at first.
He had been sitting quietly near the corner window the entire time. Fair-skinned, with weathered lines drawn deep across his face, pale blue eyes that still held the brightness of sharp memory, and a thick crown of grey hair combed neatly back. He looked to be in his early seventies, dressed in a simple brown coat over a cream shirt, like someone who had seen far too much in his lifetime but no longer needed to prove anything.
He stood slowly, walking up to the counter with a quiet grace. In his hand was a small black card.
Lily wiped her hands mechanically, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Hope everything was okay?" she said asking about the food or drink he ordered.
"It was," the old man said, voice calm and clear. "Delightful, even."
She took the card and inserted it into the machine, her focus dull, her mind still clouded.
Then, just as the payment beeped, he spoke.
"I don't think you should work for the Alchemys."
Her head snapped up. "I'm sorry—what did you say?"
The man met her gaze with unnerving stillness. "I said… I don't think you should trust the Alchemys. Especially not under Luke."
Lily stared at him, alarmed. "What do you know about that?"
"I saw your little conversation with Lucien. I may be old, but my ears still work fine. And I've seen the way they operate—how they promise safety when what they truly offer is a slow death."
Her fingers curled slowly into fists.
The man continued, voice steady but not threatening. "They don't protect, Lily. They use. As far as Luke's concerned, you're nothing but a pawn. And once you've done what he needs, they'll let you bleed in the dirt. And Oliver… the one you betrayed… will be the one to finish what they started."
"Shut up," Lily snapped. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
"Leave."
He didn't.
"I once worked for them," the man said. "Years ago. I was a sorcerer. The only one among them. You want to know why? Because Luke didn't want equals. He wanted weapons. Tools."
Lily glared at him, chest heaving.
"He killed his father," the man said, eyes growing darker. "Michael. A good man. A visionary. He was meant to lead the Alchemys into peace. But Luke took that from him—and twisted everything that followed."
Lily's lips parted, then closed.
The man stepped forward, quiet intensity in his tone. "You think you're protecting yourself by siding with them, but the choice you make now will put not just you—but your family, your café, this entire town—in danger."
"You don't know me," Lily whispered.
"No," he said gently. "But I know regret. I've carried it longer than you've been alive."
Her fear turned to rage. "You know what? If I die helping them—good. Maybe whatever damage comes will take Oliver down too. I hate him. For what he did. For what he put me through. And he will suffer for it."
The man studied her quietly.
"You've already made your choice then," he said.
"I have," she snapped.
He nodded, backing away slowly.
"Just remember… sometimes the worst betrayals aren't the ones we do to others. They're the ones we do to ourselves."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the café, his steps slow but unwavering.
Lily stood there for a long time, unmoving, the sound of the café fading around her.
Then she picked up her apron, tied it back around her waist, and moved to the back room. She pulled out her phone and made a call to Lucien.
Lucien on the other hand replied, then she "I'm in," she whispered. "Let's finish this."
* * * ** *
The early light spilled across the walls in streaks of pale gold as Elena stirred awake. Her bones still felt heavy with everything they'd lived through, but the house was calm—no shouts, no chasing, no blood.
She stepped into the kitchen, quiet as ever, and reached for the kettle. The fire beneath it was still warm from last night. As she worked, grinding the coffee beans and pouring hot water, she glanced out the window.
Oliver was outside again. Standing alone, his arms folded, leaning against the edge of the building, face turned slightly to the sky as if asking it a question.
Elena said nothing. She poured two cups, set them gently on the counter, and walked outside.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly.
Oliver didn't answer. He didn't even look at her.
She let the silence stretch for a second, then added, "Come inside. I made coffee. For both of us."
With that, she turned and stepped back into the warmth of the house.
He followed, footsteps slow.
As they entered, Elena tossed a small "Good morning" over her shoulder.
Then she handed Oliver a cup of coffee, the steam rising gently between them. He took it silently, his fingers brushing the side of the mug, still unsure how to read the quiet boy in front of him.
Just then, Sean stepped into the kitchen, the scent of coffee clinging to his clothes.
"Good morning," he said, voice low but not cold.
"Morning," Elena replied with a soft nod.
Sean walked past them without even glancing at Oliver.
Oliver noticed. He lowered his cup slightly and said under his breath, "He's not like you."
Elena gave him a small look, voice even. "He'll come around."
Sean moved toward the hearth and began checking the pan. After a moment, he asked, "You want to eat something?"
Elena nodded. "Yes. And add his mouth too," she said, jerking her head slightly toward Oliver.
Sean didn't respond, but he added more food into the pan without complaint.
Oliver glanced between them, then spoke up. "I'm Oliver."
Sean paused briefly, then looked over.
They both turned to Elena, expecting a name.
Before she could speak, Sean answered flatly, "David."
Then he turned back to the fire. "I'm Sean."
Elena blinked but quickly nodded in agreement, hand brushing the back of her short-cut hair. The lie was simple. Clean.
For now, she was David.
And no one questioned it.
Then, settling near the counter, her voice spoke.
"How did they capture you?" she asked.
Oliver stared into his cup. The silence felt heavier now.
"My brother," he said at last. "The head of the Alchemys who locked me up there. But obviously, I'm not easy to catch, it's just that luck didn't smile on me that day."
Elena frowned. "Your brother's… an alchemy?"
Oliver nodded. "Yeah."
"That makes you one too"
"No, I'm a catalyst"
"A what?"
"A sorcerer and an alchemy combined," he replied flatly. "He's not just any Alchemy—he is their leader. So that makes him a very important person."
Elena looked at him carefully. "How long were you captured?"
Oliver glanced up at her, then asked, "What year is this?"
"Twenty-three."
He muttered something under his breath and let out a breathy chuckle. "Then it's been a long time... up to two years."
Elena's expression tightened. "What kind of brother captures and tortures his own brother?"
Oliver's lips twitched bitterly. "You know. Brothers' little fights."
From across the room, Sean—who had been cooking this whole time—accidentally dropped a wooden spoon. It clattered loudly against the stone floor.
He said nothing, just picked it up and continued preparing the meal. The smell of yam and fried eggs filled the room.
In no time, he was done. Without saying a word, he brought the food to the dining table and set it down.
Elena stood, walked over, and began dishing the food onto plates. Oliver remained near the counter, unsure if Sean was annoyed… or silently judging him.
Just then, Elena turned with a plate and handed it to him.
"Come and eat," she said plainly.
Oliver took it carefully, his voice quieter than before. "Thanks… thank you." He glanced at Sean. "Thanks for this."
Sean didn't look at him directly. He just gave a small nod — subtle, but sincere. The edge in his eyes had softened. The story had done something.
They sat and ate in a heavy quiet.
After a few minutes, Sean muttered as he chewed, "We're going to need new clothes."
Elena raised a brow.
Sean didn't look up. "Seems like someone might start wearing mine soon. And I don't like that."
Oliver didn't reply.
Sean stood first, finished with his meal. He wiped his hands, pushed in the chair, and walked out of the room.
A few moments passed.
Somewhere down the hall, Oliver heard his footsteps fade — then return briefly. The guest room door creaked open slightly, then closed again.
Sean reappeared briefly, towel slung over his shoulder, walking straight to the bathroom.
Later, as Oliver entered the guest room, he froze.
There, sitting neatly on the bed, was a clean set of clothes—Sean's, freshly folded and left without a word.
Oliver stared at it for a second. A quiet, slow smile touched the corner of his lips.
He looked toward the bathroom where water now ran behind the door.
"At least he's starting to come around," Oliver muttered to himself.
He picked up the clothes and made his way toward the wash area, shoulders a little less tense than before.