Chapter Fourteen: The Borrowed Peace

A soft knock roused him from sleep. His mind scrambled for the present. He blinked once, the fog clearing. His eyes focused on the underside of the tester—a panel of dark, polished wood carved with faint spirals that caught the thin dawn light. The fireplace had burned down to a handful of dull embers. Then memory returned—the flight, the London Chapter, Kiran’s voice, the ring.

Another knock came. “Elias?”

He cleared his throat, pushing the haze away. “Come in.”

The door opened with its slow, deliberate hinge-creak. Naomi stepped inside, balancing a small tray—a bowl of warm water, folded gauze, and a fresh roll of bandage. The morning air clung to the tips of her short hair, giving the strands a fine, wet sheen.

“I thought I’d clean your wound before breakfast.” she said. Her tone was soft but carried a note of inquiry, as if she already sensed something out of place.

Elias pushed himself upright as she closed the door and walked to the bedside. The ring glinted on his finger, a flash of silver against the muted light. Naomi noticed immediately. Her eyes widened, a change so slight he might have imagined it. Then she looked at him again, longer this time, studying—not his face, but something unseen that hung about him.

“What?” he asked.

“Your aura has changed,” she murmured. “Last night it was barely there. Now it’s stronger, but… flickering, like a candle in the wind.”

He gave a faint, uncertain smile. “Maybe that’s what happens when you spend too much time in libraries.”

But her gaze had already fallen to the ring. “Where did you get that?”

Elias hesitated, then told her everything about the night before: wandering into the library, the whisper that drew him to the glass case, Kiran appearing behind him, the ring, the flood of memory that had torn through him. He told her everything—except the vow he’d made.

Naomi listened without interrupting, her fingers tightening on the edge of the tray when he spoke of the vision. When he finished, she was silent for a while, eyes lowered to the tray.

Finally she said, “That ring has been waiting for you a very long time.”

He looked down at it. The silver caught the dawn, throwing thin arcs of light across the blanket. “So Kiran said.”

Naomi gave a crisp nod, then set the tray down beside him. “Let’s look at that arm.”

She unwound the old bandage carefully. It was stuck fast, dried blood cementing the linen to the skin. She poured a few drops of antiseptic over the linen, wincing briefly as she peeled the old dressing back.

What remained was not the fresh, weeping injury she expected, but a dark, definite seam of tissue. The wound was fully closed and sealed tight, requiring no further dressing, yet the new skin remained angry and dark, stretched tautly across the muscle—a rapid repair that was nonetheless brutal and incomplete.

She frowned. “That’s… interesting. It was deep and open yesterday.”

Elias flexed his wrist, surprised at the absence of pain. “It doesn't even ache anymore.”

“Your healing accelerated overnight.” She traced the skin gently with the back of her fingers.

“Was it because of the ring?” he asked.

“The ring was only a key, Elias. The power that healed you is your own; it’s your memory awakening that power. But it’s not stable yet—like it’s searching for balance.”

He looked down at the mark, then at her. “Is that good or bad?”

“For now? Good.” She smiled faintly. “But let’s keep it uncovered. It doesn’t need a bandage anymore.”

"A good pivot," Elias muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear.

She gathered the used linen and rose. From somewhere below came the faint sound of movement: footsteps, clinking porcelain, the murmur of morning activity.

Naomi checked the clock on the mantel. “It’s nearly seven-thirty. Breakfast is at eight. You should take a shower and get changed. Don’t keep us waiting too long. Kiran’s breakfasts are an event, not a meal.”

She left, and the room settled into quiet. Elias showered quickly, the hot water a simple, startling luxury. When he stepped out, a set of clothes was waiting on the bench: dark trousers, a fine white shirt, and a grey waistcoat. The fit was nearly tailored, a world away from his worn jeans.

He dressed and caught his reflection in the mirror. The man looking back didn’t feel entirely unfamiliar, but there was a new steadiness in his eyes—a quiet that hadn’t been there before.

As he stepped into the hallway, two doors opened further down in quick succession. Reina emerged first, in a soft charcoal coat over a cream blouse. Julian followed, tugging at the collar of a dark jacket, his hair—astonishingly—combed.

Reina raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, look at us. The London Chapter’s attempt at civility.”

Julian smirked. “Don’t get used to it.” His eyes dropped to Elias’s hand. “Nice ring.”

Reina noticed too. “That’s new,” she said. “Looks cool.”

Elias hesitated a beat. “A gift from Kiran.”

Julian gave a low whistle. “He must really like you, then. The man guards his artifacts like a dragon with gold.”

Elias shrugged casually, though his pulse quickened. “He said it belonged to someone like me.”

Reina exchanged a look with Julian. “Let’s go,” she said. “Before his ego fills the corridor.”

They descended the staircase together. Morning light pooled through the high windows, catching dust motes that drifted like slow snow. The chandelier overhead was unlit, but every crystal caught the sun, scattering it into delicate fragments.

The smell of tea, coffee and warm bread greeted them before they reached the dining room. The space was large but intimate—a long mahogany table beneath a skylight framed by carved beams. Vases of fresh ivy and pale chrysanthemums lined the table’s center, their scent blending with the aroma of baked scones and citrus marmalade.

Kiran stood near the far end, speaking quietly with Naomi. When he saw them enter, he smiled and gestured warmly. “Good morning! Come, sit. The sun is rarely so obliging in November; we should cherish every last bit of it.”

Hunger, sudden and sharp, struck Elias at the sight of the table: steaming croissants, bowls of berries, slices of smoked salmon, fresh fruit, a pot of dark coffee and a teapot that perfumed the entire room.

Elias gave a low hum of appreciation as he sat. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Kiran chuckled softly. “We take our breakfasts seriously. The world’s chaos always begins after tea.”

They served themselves. For a few minutes, conversation fell into the easy rhythm of soft sounds and low laughter. The rain-washed light pouring through the windows made everything glisten—the silver cutlery, the rim of Naomi’s cup, the faint gold thread in Kiran’s waistcoat.

Halfway through, Kiran set his cup down, expression turning thoughtful. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I must leave London tonight.”

Reina looked up. “So soon?”

“The Elder has summoned the Council members.” His tone was mild, but there was tension beneath it. “Apparently something significant has been uncovered.”

He glanced toward Naomi. “You know what it’s about, don’t you?”

She nodded once. “Yes.” Kiran’s gaze softened, partly admiration, partly curiosity. “Then you’ve finally found it.” His voice dropped, almost to himself. “Fascinating. I can’t wait to see it.”

No one spoke for a moment. Even Julian paused, fork midway to his mouth. The air felt charged, not heavy but aware.

Kiran gave a discreet cough, reassuming his air of gracious hospitality. “While I’m gone, you’re all to feel entirely at home here. Mr. Rao will see to anything you require—meals, transport, even books, should curiosity strike. Treat the Chapter as your own house.”

Reina nodded. “Thank you. That’s generous.”

“Generosity is only a virtue when there’s trust behind it,” Kiran said with a smile. “And I trust you all—especially our newest guest.”

Elias met his gaze, uncertain what to say. His eyes held a spark of something unreadable, like a craftsman evaluating his own creation.

Kiran rose, folding his napkin beside the plate. “Elias, if you've finished, would you care to join me for a short walk outside?”

Elias glanced toward the tall windows, where the sky had softened to a washed silver. “Yes, definitely,” he replied.

“Excellent. The air is sharp this time of year. Change into some warm clothes and meet me by the front hall door in five minutes.” Kiran’s smile deepened, easy and genuine. “I find mornings like this too good to waste indoors.”

He left the table with that same unhurried grace, speaking briefly to a steward at the door before disappearing down the corridor.

For a few moments the others lingered over their coffee. Reina was already scanning the day’s schedule on her tablet; Julian was buttering another croissant, apparently determined to sample every jar of jam within reach. Naomi sat quietly, her expression softer than it had been in days.

Elias looked toward her. “He seems… kind,” he said simply.

Naomi nodded. “He is. Kiran has a way of making people feel at home here.” Her voice held only calm acknowledgment, almost admiring, with no hint of warning or hidden weight.

Reina pushed her chair back. “It's easy for the Awakened to forget they're still human, but Kiran always makes an effort to be decent. I'm sure you’ll like him.”

Elias smiled. “I already do.”

“Go,” Naomi said, smiling now. “Before he changes his mind and puts you to work indexing old scrolls.” Elias laughed. “Guess I’d better not keep him waiting.”

He returned to his room and quickly pulled the thick, dark, heavy coat that had been laid out with his other clothes from the wardrobe. The heavy garment fit him perfectly.

When he reached the front hall, Kiran was waiting, already cloaked and holding a small pair of leather gloves. He leaned lightly on a dark, polished cane, its golden head catching the glow of the hall light.

“Punctual,” Kiran murmured. “I like that.”

The porter held the heavy oak door open for them. Outside, the light was immediate and sharp. Elias stepped onto the stone pavement, buttoning his coat fully and pulling his hands into his pockets. He inhaled the cold, clean air.

Kiran led them a few yards away, to the grand iron gates that separated the street from the Square’s expansive central garden. The noise of the city—a faint drone of traffic and distant movement—was muted by the surrounding tall, Georgian facades of Russell Square.

“Ready?” Kiran asked, gesturing toward the gates.

Elias nodded, and they stepped through onto the damp gravel path. The large park felt cavernous in the early morning; great black plane trees stretched bare branches into the pearly sky, and the wide lawns were wet and glistening.

Kiran began walking at a slow, measured pace down the central path. “Tell me, Elias, how are you feeling after last night?”

Elias hesitated, unsure what kind of answer Kiran was seeking. “Different,” he said at last. “I'm trying to make sense of it. It’s strange—everything feels familiar and foreign at once. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and found out it was mine all along.”

Kiran nodded, his gaze distant. “That’s always the case with remembering; it opens more than it explains. The process changes you every time, sometimes just a little and sometimes a lot, but you are never exactly the same person afterward.”

He met Elias’s eyes. “You did well to endure it; the first flood is always the hardest.”

“Should I expect another one soon?” Elias asked.

Kiran smiled faintly. “Each time you remember, the pace quickens; but don’t chase it, Elias. Don’t push it. Everything will fall into place in its own time.”

Elias nodded once, the movement barely perceptible.

Kiran slowed his pace, eyes focused on Elias. “The details you gave me about the ancient Order and the Stone Hall… Can you tell me more about it?”

Elias felt the memory surface effortlessly, sharp and clear. “The woman I loved in that life, Sigrid, told me stories passed down from generation to generation: She said there are some—rare ones—who carry their lives with them even after death, burdened with dreams of what came before.”

He paused, hearing her voice vividly. “She said they formed an order, long ago, men and women who remembered. They called themselves The Forgotten Order. They were chosen to protect, to bear the weight that others cannot—a shield between the weak and the dark.”

Kiran moved with an unnatural grace, the polished tip of his cane seeming to find the path without a whisper, as he leaned slightly into Elias’s words.

Elias looked at him, but his gaze was lost in the memory. “She said they built a shrine of stone in the lands of the west. Stǫnr Hǫll, the Stone Hall. It was a place where the chosen could awaken what was buried inside them. A place to remember.”

For a moment Kiran said nothing. Then he stopped walking, letting out a slow breath. “Astonishing... I’ve always sought the earliest history of our presence here in Britain, but the furthest records I could ever trace were to the era of Merlin.”

Elias froze. “You mean… the wizard? He was real?”

Kiran gave a soft chuckle, a warm sound against the cold morning quiet. “A legend, yes, but based on a real man. He was someone very much like you and me—someone who had awakened and remembered. He was instrumental in establishing the Order’s core tenets here, which, in some form, have led to what little is left of it today in England.”

They moved a few steps beneath the high, skeletal branches of a giant plane tree.

Kiran continued, his voice lowering, intimate in the open air, “Back then, the Order wasn’t a single, monolithic body. There were different branches scattered across the world—small, isolated groups working toward similar goals, but largely unaware of one another’s existence. It’s only been in the last centuries that we truly began to find and communicate with each other. Now, for the first time ever, the Order works under the same leadership worldwide, stronger than we’ve been in millennia.”

The morning light filtered through the bare branches, casting the path in shadow and weak light.

He turned to face Elias directly. “In my experience, nothing in this world happens without a reason,” he said, gently placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “Now that you are here, you must visit the place you now know as the Stone Hall—Stonehenge.”

Elias’s pulse quickened. "Stonehenge?" he asked. The name itself felt like a key turning in a lock.

“The circle of sarsen stones on Salisbury Plain,” Kiran said, as if stating a simple fact. “Where else could it be?”

Elias stared at him. The question, when it came, was almost a whisper. “You think it will help?”

Kiran’s expression grew thoughtful. “Don’t set your hopes too high. When I visited years ago, I found it carried a strange, powerful energy, but it no longer has the ability to help people like us remember—if it ever truly did. It’s a ruin. Nonetheless, perhaps seeing it, standing in the place you heard about in your vision, will quiet your need for an answer, even temporarily. It’s worth the journey.”

Elias said nothing. He merely gave a short, tight nod.

Kiran smiled warmly. “The cold is starting to bite. Let’s get you back inside. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Thank you, Kiran,” Elias said, truly meaning it.

Kiran gave him a quick clap on the shoulder. “Good. Back to the warmth.”

Kiran left that same evening, his departure as measured as everything else about him. He promised to return in a few days, but those days stretched quietly into weeks. No message came from Bhutan, no courier from the Council, and by the time the city began dressing itself in lights and garlands, they had stopped expecting word altogether.

The group settled into a quiet, almost domestic rhythm. Mornings were spent walking the quiet squares of Bloomsbury, where the world felt still, separate from the season’s rush. By afternoon, the four of them could often be found gathered in the drawing room—Naomi sketching, Reina with her tablet, Julian at the piano, and Elias listening with a faint, surprised smile.

Elias spent much of his own time in the library, searching old manuscripts for answers; the more he read, the more questions emerged, yet he felt a quiet comfort in the search itself.

One morning, however, the group consciously broke the pattern.

Between bites of a hurried breakfast, plans for the day took shape. The city’s Christmas markets were in full swing, and Naomi suggested they visit Covent Garden before lunch. Reina, ever the practical one, reminded them to dress warmly—“this isn't New York cold; this damp gets into your bones”—and Mr. Rao, indulgent as always, arranged for the car.

By the time they were ready to leave, the London Chapter house looked like a postcard. Snow hadn’t fallen, but a light frost shimmered on the garden railings, and the faintest mist hung above the cobblestones.

As they neared the city center, the streets had filled with the season’s buzz—a mingling of voices, carolers, and the distant bell of St. Paul’s rolling through the cold air. The city in December carried its own rhythm: red buses gleaming against the grey sky, wreaths in shop windows, lampposts wrapped in evergreen and ribbon. The cold was sharp but not cruel, and the air smelled of roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, and wet pavement.

Their car stopped near Covent Garden’s piazza, already buzzing with tourists and locals alike. Elias stepped out, breath clouding the air, and felt the wind bite pleasantly at his cheeks. “Now this,” he said, “is Christmas.”

Naomi laughed. “You sound like a child seeing snow for the first time.”

“Close enough,” he said. “Last Christmas was… quieter.”

The market stretched in all directions—wooden stalls strung with lights, artisans selling hand-carved toys, scarves, and jewelry. Musicians played soft carols under the arches; the air rang with the sound of laughter and the clinking of mugs. Julian and Reina immediately wandered off toward a vendor selling pastries the size of plates.

Naomi and Elias walked slower, letting the crowd carry them. Everywhere he looked, there was movement: couples taking photos under mistletoe arches, children running between stalls, the golden light of late morning catching on glass baubles and tinselled wreaths.

He bought a small tin of Earl Grey for Mr. Rao, the kind wrapped in polished brass, engraved with the year’s emblem. “He strikes me as a tea traditionalist,” he said. Naomi nodded approvingly.

For the two attendants—Anna and Cooper—he found hand-painted ornaments, delicate and shaped like angels holding lanterns.

Choosing for the others was harder. Reina was easy to admire but difficult to read. After some wandering, he settled on a sleek black leather notebook embossed with a silver compass rose—a blend of precision and wanderlust that somehow felt like her.

Julian, on the other hand, drew inspiration from chaos. Elias found a set of old vinyl records at a small vintage stall: classic jazz and a bit of Bowie. He imagined Julian’s grin when he’d unwrap them.

Naomi lingered at a nearby stall lined with handmade scarves and gloves. The colors were muted—smoky blues, forest greens, soft greys. Elias pretended to browse but couldn’t help watching her. She ran her fingers over a scarf of pale wool, the color of moonlight. He waited until she stepped away, then quietly bought it.

And for Kiran—though no one had heard from him in weeks—Elias chose a small, beautifully bound volume on early British archaeology, embossed in gold leaf. He’ll come back, he told himself. He has to.

By noon, their hands were full of paper bags and their cheeks flushed from the cold. They stopped for lunch at a nearby café, a small place tucked between bookshops and filled with the scent of baked bread and pine garlands.

Inside, the air was warm and golden. A small tree stood in the window, decorated with tiny copper bells that chimed whenever the door opened. They ordered shepherd’s pie, soups, and hot chocolate thick enough to eat with a spoon.

Julian was telling an animated story about his disastrous attempt to build a snowman as a child—“We used my dad’s umbrella for the nose because we couldn’t find a carrot”—and Reina was laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Naomi, too, succumbed to a laugh, muffling it at once with her napkin.

For a few hours, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. The Order, the danger, even the ghosts that lingered behind Elias’s eyes—they all faded beneath the warmth of laughter and the smell of cinnamon.

At one point, Naomi caught Elias watching her. “What?” she said, smiling faintly.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “You just look… different when you laugh.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You mean human?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

The afternoon passed in a pleasant blur of light and sound. They visited the bookstalls along the Strand, stopped to listen to carolers near the National Gallery, and watched the city shift slowly toward dusk.

By the time they made it back to the Chapter, the house was glowing from within. Someone had lit the fire in the main hall, and soft instrumental carols drifted from the old gramophone. Elias placed the wrapped gifts under the tree, labeling each with neat handwriting. For a while, he just stood there, looking at the lights reflected in the window.

Clara would’ve loved this.

He remembered the Christmases they’d spent together—her laughter filling their small apartment, the smell of cinnamon rolls she insisted on burning “for authenticity.” Last year, when the laughter turned to quiet conversation beside hospital machines, her hand finding his still even in sleep. The ache was gentle now, like an old bruise. He didn’t try to push it away.

That evening, they went back out again. The city had transformed.

The sky was indigo now, the first depths of night settling, and London glowed. The streets shimmered with light—strings of gold and white crossing overhead, reflecting in wet pavement like constellations. Street musicians played under archways; laughter and music poured from every café.

Julian and Reina had stopped at a market stall again—she claiming she needed to find the “right” wrapping paper, Julian insisting on another pastry. Naomi and Elias drifted ahead, walking side by side through the narrow streets near Leicester Square.

It was quieter there. The wind carried the faint scent of glazed almonds and the sound of distant bells. Naomi had her hands tucked into her coat pockets, her breath visible in small clouds.

“They’ve been good days,” Elias said quietly.

She nodded. “You needed them.”

“We all did,” Elias said.

Naomi met his eyes with a genuine smile, and a silent understanding passed through them.

They stopped at a street corner where a choir sang carols beside an old church. Their voices rose soft and clear into the night, the harmonies threading through the cold air. Naomi closed her eyes for a moment, listening.

Elias looked at her profile—the calm strength there, the light catching in her hair—and felt a powerful sense of assurance, the feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be.

He smiled, softly. “Hard to believe it’s only been a month since we got here.”

“Feels longer,” she said.

“In a good way?”

Naomi’s smile widened a fraction. “In the best way.”

They started walking again. The Thames wasn’t far; from the next street, they could see the faint glow of the water and the lights of Westminster beyond.

Naomi broke the silence. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Elias hesitated, then said simply, “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how, after a long while… things finaly feel right.”

“Then cling to it while you can,” She nodded slowly. “Even borrowed peace is still peace.”

They reached the river. The wind was stronger there, carrying the chill of the water. The reflections of the city lights rippled across the surface—gold, blue, crimson. Elias shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, the cheer in the air around him feeling like a language he’d once known but couldn’t quite recall.

Naomi looked up at the lights. “Christmas in London,” she said softly. “You can’t help but feel a little hope.”

Elias smiled faintly, letting out a soft breath. “Yes, you truly can’t.”

They just stood there for a while, watching the river move beneath the city’s glow. The world felt suspended—cold and bright. And though they both knew this would not last forever, for this one evening, it no longer mattered.

After they arrived home, Elias soon found his way to the library. Mr. Rao appeared at the library door with his usual composure, holding a small folder. “Mr. Shirazi,” he said, “I know you’ve been spending long hours here. Since the Master has not yet returned, I thought you might appreciate a change of scenery. A private visit to Stonehenge has been arranged for tomorrow morning.”

Elias blinked, surprised. “Private access to Stonehenge?”

Rao’s smile was discreet but certain. “The Order’s reach is long, Mr. Shirazi. We have retained a few old connections. Consider it purely educational.”

By the time he left, Elias was already imagining the stones—the cold air, the weight of the ages, and the echo of the stories he had heard and read.

With an early start planned, he went to bed, but he didn’t realize when sleep turned to something else. The warmth of the bed was gone. Cold air pressed in from all sides, thick with damp and clay. A dim light glowed somewhere ahead—yellow, wavering, as if trapped behind fog. He heard dripping water, the echo of chains, the faint hum of the city far above.

Shapes took form in the half-light. Brick walls, arched and sweating. Metal pipes ran like ribs along the ceiling. The smell was wrong—burned iron, wet earth, and a faint odor of putrid sulfur.

Then voices.

“Hold her.”

Elias turned. Reina knelt in the center of the tunnel, her muffled sobs the only sound besides the harsh, strained breathing of their captors. Hands bound, her face was a pale blur of fear. Julian was down beside her, a man’s boot pressed hard against his chest, silencing his ragged gasp. Naomi was thrashing wildly against three others, the sound of their grunts and scuffling feet echoing off the cold walls.

The men moved with a strange precision, too smooth, too quiet. Their eyes caught the faint light and reflected it back, a dull animal gleam. Beneath the stench of metal, Elias smelled ash and something that made his stomach twist.

“Kill the rest,” a calm voice said.

He saw him then—the bald man, broad-shouldered, coat immaculate despite the grime. Al-Rashid’s head of security. His tone was steady, almost gentle, as he looked at Naomi. “She’s the one we keep.”

Elias tried to move, but something slammed him back against the cold wall. An invisible pressure, heavy as stone, crushed his chest. His breath came short.

“Let her go!” he shouted, but the words came out strangled.

None of them looked at him.

Reina’s eyes were wide with terror. Julian fought, kicked once, and was struck down again. Naomi met Elias’s gaze for the briefest instant—steady, defiant, afraid—and that was worse than any nightmare.

The air tightened. A sound like distant thunder rumbled somewhere deep in the tunnels. Elias tried to crawl forward; his fingers scraped the wet bricks. Nothing moved. Panic surged.

He knew this feeling: the helplessness, the loss—Sigrid, Clara, every face he’d ever failed. All of it crashed through him at once.

The world around him shattered.

Light tore through the darkness, swallowing everything—voices, walls, faces—until nothing remained but the echo of his own heartbeat.

Elias jolted awake, air tearing into his lungs. The room was still, the fire burned low. But the fear clung to him like smoke, heavy and cold in his throat. He rubbed his face and exhaled. It was only a nightmare. He repeated the thought like a prayer. It couldn't be real. But the question refused to fade: What if he was wrong?