Where Hope Begins

Lorenzo swung open the door—and barely had a second to react before Zyric shoved his way inside like a whirlwind.

“Ren! Dude! You will not believe this—” Zyric tripped over the rug, caught himself with a dramatic wobble, and flung a warm takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. “Victory pasta. Extra cheesy. You’re welcome.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You broke into my apartment… for pasta?”

“No,” Zyric said, grinning ear to ear, “I broke in because Professor George saw your post. The post. And he wants to meet you. In person. Tomorrow.”

Lorenzo froze. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.” Zyric’s curls bounced as he nodded. “He said your photo felt... ‘otherworldly.’ Like it caught something that doesn’t exist in this world.”

Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat.

Zyric kept going, animated as ever. “He wants to talk about showcasing your stuff. Like, in a real exhibit. This is huge, Ren. You’re finally getting noticed!”

Lorenzo’s mind buzzed—part awe, part disbelief—and under it all, the steady pulse of Isolde’s story echoing through him.

She wasn’t just something he imagined. She wasn’t a glitch in a camera.

She was real.

And somehow, that truth had pulled him into something bigger than either of them.

Zyric noticed the faraway look in his eyes and frowned. “You okay, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Lorenzo shook himself. “I’m fine. Just… processing.”

Zyric grinned and pointed two finger guns at him. “Well, don’t think too hard. You’ve got twenty-four hours before you’re famous. Enjoy the mystery while it lasts. I gotta bounce. Alina’s already threatening violence if I’m late again.”

Lorenzo chuckled softly. “Go. Tell her I said good luck dealing with you.”

“She needs it,” Zyric winked. “Tomorrow night—we celebrate. Loud music, bad dancing, the works.”

“Looking forward to it.”

With one last mock-salute, Zyric bounded out the door, leaving Lorenzo in silence once more.

He turned and rushed toward his room.

Please still be here.

He swung the door open—and exhaled in relief.

Isolde stood near the window, her pale hair shimmering in the fading light, her gaze fixed on the photographs pinned to the wall.

“These… you took all of them?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Photography helps me feel like I’m part of something. Like I can show the world the way I see it.”

She nodded slowly. “They’re beautiful. They speak without sound.”

He unpacked the food Zyric had brought. He paused for a second, then plated some and carried it back to her.

“Here,” he said, offering the dish. “Zyric brought this—cheesy pasta bomb from that place on 4th Street. It’s not royal fare or anything, but… this is a thank-you.”

Isolde blinked. “Thank-you?”

“For being in the photo. For being real. For not disappearing.”

She looked down at the plate and then back at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did. You gave that photo meaning. Professor George—he’s a famous photographer—he saw it and said it felt otherworldly. He wants to meet me because of you.”

Isolde was quiet for a moment. “Because of me…”

“You’re the reason I’m being seen. Even if they can’t see you, I know you’re the reason that picture looks the way it does.”

A quiet smile touched her lips. A real one this time. Not haunted. Just… soft.

She took the plate from his hands with gentle care.

“I don’t know if I should stay,” she said quietly.

“You can,” he said, voice steady. “If you trust me. I know you can’t trust me in just one day, but... in case there’s no one else who can see you—I want to know why me. And if there’s anything I can do for you. So you’re safe here. Really.”

She looked at him for a long moment, violet eyes full of emotion.

“And if there’s no way back to Astrael?”

“Then you won’t be alone.”

She sat down, the weight of her story settling between them like dust. They ate quietly, the tension easing into a fragile peace.

After dinner, Lorenzo rummaged through a drawer and handed her an old T-shirt and a pair of loose trousers.

“Here,” he said. “Not exactly royal, but it’s something.”

She accepted them with a nod and disappeared into the bathroom.

He waited, unsure what to do with himself. The room still carried her presence—even in silence, it felt different. Warmer. Realer.

When she returned, Lorenzo looked up—and immediately looked away.

She wore his oversized clothes like a cloak, her long silver hair damp and curling at the ends. The magical hairpin now rested in place once more, pulsing faintly.

Her eyes, no longer just haunted, glowed with something steadier.

Hope.

“You can sleep in my room,” he said quickly. “I’ll take the couch.”

Isolde stepped forward. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I want to.”

A pause. Then she nodded.

He handed her an extra pillow and walked to the door.

“You’re safe here,” he said before closing it gently behind him.

The couch wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Lorenzo didn’t care.

He lay in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing through everything she’d said.

Dragons. Betrayal. Magic. Envy turned to exile. It all sounded like something out of the stories he used to read as a kid.

But now… it was his story, too.