Colson

The Witch Who Loved Him First

Amaris POV

Time magic did not simply exist. It endured.

It lingered in the air long after its casting, settled into the bones of objects that had carried its burden, and breathed in subtle, quiet pulses that no ordinary being would ever perceive. It did not crack loudly like glass, nor did it shatter in dramatic displays of light and destruction. Instead, it weakened in whispers, in hairline fractures and gentle resistances, in the slow erosion of certainty that could only ever be felt by those who had dared to bend its laws and lived long enough to feel its consequences.

The pocket watch rested at the center of my worktable, surrounded by carefully arranged candles whose flames leaned toward it as if drawn by an invisible current, their light refracting across the fractured glass in delicate distortions that shifted each time the watch exhaled another quiet pulse of temporal strain.

I did not touch it immediately.

I simply stood there, watching it.

Listening.

Feeling it.

Colson’s presence still lingered in this room, and though he had departed hours ago, though the wards had sealed behind him and the night had swallowed his footsteps, he had not fully left this space. His magic had brushed against mine in ways few beings ever managed, not violently nor intrusively, but deeply, as though some hidden part of him had recognized something in me that neither of us had yet fully understood.

Vampires were not creatures of magic in the way witches were. They were creatures that consumed magic, bent it, disrupted it, reshaped it through sheer force of will and survival instinct. They did not normally leave impressions behind.

But Colson had.

Not because he had tried.

But because something in him existed beyond what he had once been.

Beyond what he believed himself to be.

I exhaled slowly, steadying myself, forcing my thoughts away from him and back toward the fragile, wounded object that lay before me, because sentiment had no place in temporal repair, and even the smallest lapse in discipline could unravel consequences that neither he nor I could undo.

The crack across the watch’s surface was thin, deceptively delicate, but it radiated a resistance that extended far beyond the physical casing. It was not merely broken. It was strained, the spell woven into its core stretched taut by forces that had not existed when it was first cast.

Which meant something had interfered.

Something aware.

Something that had felt him move through time.

My fingers hovered just above the surface, not yet touching, allowing my senses to extend outward and brush gently against the layers of magic embedded within it, feeling the threads I had once woven—or would someday weave—stretching thin but unbroken, clinging stubbornly to their purpose.

“You are holding him,” I whispered softly, my voice barely louder than the candle flames themselves.

The watch pulsed in response.

Not with sound.

With acknowledgment.

I allowed myself the smallest, faintest smile.

“Yes,” I murmured. “I know.”

I lowered my fingers carefully, brushing the outer casing with deliberate precision, allowing my magic to slip into the fracture in slow, controlled strands, weaving through the crack like silk threads drawn through torn fabric, binding without forcing, repairing without commanding, because time resisted coercion and obeyed only balance.

It was then, in the subtle shift of light across the brass interior, that I saw it.

A mark.

So faint it could not have been accidental.

So carefully hidden it could only ever have been meant for me.

My breath stilled in my chest.

It was my sigil.

Not the one others recognized.

Not the one attached to my lineage or my name.

But the one I had created for myself alone, centuries ago, when I first began to understand that there would be moments when only I could be trusted with the truths I would someday need.

Future me had placed it there.

Not as decoration.

Not as protection.

But as a message.

My fingers trembled—not in fear, but in recognition, in the quiet, overwhelming understanding that this moment had been anticipated long before I had lived it.

“She knew,” I whispered.

Future me had known I would open this watch.

Had known I would need guidance.

Had known I would need reassurance.

I swallowed slowly, steadying myself, and whispered the unlocking incantation.

“Verum revelare.”

Truth reveal.

The sigil responded instantly, glowing with a soft, steady light that did not illuminate the room but instead illuminated understanding within my mind, translating memory into meaning, thought into certainty.

And then I heard her.

My voice.

Older.

Heavier.

Wiser.

And unbearably certain.

Trust him.

The words did not carry hesitation.

They did not carry doubt.

They carried truth.

Trust Colson with your life.

My heart tightened in my chest, not because the instruction frightened me, but because it did not surprise me.

Because even now, in this moment before I had lived the years that would bind us, I already felt the truth of it settling into my bones.

Trust him with the book.

I inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of that command settle over me, because the book was not merely an artifact.

It was a weapon.

A consequence.

A future that could either be rewritten or destroyed.

Protect him from his old self.

My fingers curled instinctively against the table.

Protect him…

Not from enemies.

Not from fate.

But from himself.

Images flickered at the edges of my awareness—not memories, but impressions left behind by the magic itself. Loneliness that stretched across yesrs. Violence that had become instinct rather than choice. A man who had survived by becoming the very thing the world feared most.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything else.

Until…

Something changed.

Until…

Me.

My breath trembled.

Future me had seen something in him.

Something worth saving.

Something worth loving.

The message continued.

Store your power far away.

Understanding struck immediately.

Future me had prepared for the cost.

Had ensured that sending him back would not leave me entirely empty.

Had ensured I would survive long enough to see him return.

A faint, trembling smile touched my lips.

“You were clever,” I whispered.

Of course I had been.

The words slowed.

Softened.

You and I can never see our end.

Pain flickered through me.

Not fear.

Grief.

Because time witches rarely saw their own endings clearly.

Not without unraveling themselves in the process.

But we can feel it.

My hand rose to my chest without conscious thought.

Where warmth lingered.

Where his presence had left something behind.

You must feel it as well.

I closed my eyes briefly.

Yes.

I did.

Even now.

Even before I had lived the years that would make it undeniable.

For that…

The magic hesitated.

Fragile.

Please show Colson the love I already know you feel.

My throat tightened.

Because love, once acknowledged, could never truly be denied.

Make sure he knows our love stretches even before we knew him.

Tears burned behind my eyes, though I did not allow them to fall.

Because I understood.

Time had folded around us.

Love had found its way backward.

Let him know… even if we finish… our love will flourish in the earth… and live on around him.

The light faded.

The message complete.

Silence filled the room once more.

I stood there for a very long time, staring at the watch, feeling the truth of what I had learned settle fully into my soul.

Future me had not simply trusted him.

She had loved him.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Enough to break time itself.

Enough to risk everything.

Enough to leave behind a message not for survival—

But for him.

A slow, quiet smile touched my lips.

“I already do,” I whispered.

And for the first time since he had walked through my door, I allowed myself to fully accept what had already begun.

I would fix the watch.

I would send him home.

And when he returned…

I would show him.

Because some loves were not born in time.

They were born outside it.

And they endured long after time itself broke.