At night, exhausted but content, Clive retired to the guest room that now felt like his own.

  This time, a girl was cleaning the room. She looked to be around sixteen, with copper-red hair pulled back in a practical braid and flour dusting her dark blue dress. "You must be father's new apprentice," she said, straightening up from where she'd been sweeping the floor.

  "I’m… helping him out," Clive replied, taken aback by her presence. "And you are?"

  She nodded, setting the broom against the wall and dusting her hands on her apron. "Emma," she introduced herself with a small curtsy. "Emma Forrester. Father's been talking about you nonstop since you arrived. Never seen him so excited about an apprentice before."

  Clive raised an eyebrow. "Really? He hides it well."

  Emma laughed. "That's just his way. He believes excessive praise makes for lazy craftsmen." She moved to the window, adjusting the curtains. "But he showed me what you made today. He said you’re a genius craftsman."

  "He didn't mention that to me," Clive said, setting his sketchbook down on the small table by the bed.

  "Of course not." Emma smiled knowingly. "But I saw him examining it after you left the forge. He put it in his cabinet of exemplary work."

  Clive felt a flutter of pride at that. It felt good to have his work acknowledged.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you," she continued, moving to straighten the blankets on his bed. "Father asked me to make sure you were comfortable. Said you'd worked hard today."

  "Not at all," Clive assured her, though he felt awkward watching her tidy his space. "You don't have to do that. I can manage."

  "Don’t worry about it. You're in Marblehaven now. And here, we look after each other." Emma moved to a small vase on the windowsill and arranged a handful of wildflowers that Clive hadn't noticed before. "I picked these this morning. Thought they might brighten the room."

  "Thank you," he said. "They're lovely."

  "I've brought some proper clothes for you too," she said, laying a neatly folded bundle on the chest at the foot of the bed. "They’ll help you blend in better around town. What you're wearing now..." She hesitated, her eyes taking in his modern clothes. "Well, it might as well be a sign hanging around your neck announcing you're not from Marblehaven."

  Clive thanked her with a nod. Emma gave him a warm smile and a small curtsy before slipping out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Clive lay on the straw-filled mattress and reflected on his good fortune. A warm bed and honest work, he could want for little more.

  Yet as the candle flickered on his bedside table, an emptiness gnawed at him. He turned restlessly, seeking a comfortable position. Sleep should have come easily after the day's labor at Garrett's forge, but his mind refused to quiet. Sighing, he rolled toward the window.

  The full moon was brilliant against the indigo sky. It reminded him of home.

  What time was it in his old world? Was Jill awake? Working late at her desk, perhaps, glancing up to see the moon through her apartment window?

  He pressed his palm against the windowsill, fingers tapping against the wood. The tapping grew faster until he pushed away from the window and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his boots.

  "Just some fresh air," he whispered to himself, grabbing his sketchbook from the bedside table.

  He slipped out of the room and down the narrow hallway. The front door opened with a creak, and he stepped into the night.

  The cool night air caressed his skin, carrying the lingering scents of woodsmoke and baking bread from the day's activities. Clive breathed deeply, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.

  He stumbled through the sleeping village, past shuttered windows and silent doorways, until he reached the cobblestone town square. The square was deserted save for a stray cat that darted across his path, its eyes reflecting the moonlight like tiny lanterns before disappearing into an alley. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

  Above him, the full moon hung large and luminous in the star-scattered sky. He found himself staring up at it, the way he and Jill used to do together.

  Moongazing.

  That had been one of their favourite pastimes. He still remembered that night, when they made their promise.

  “Look,” Jill said. "Orion's belt is so clear tonight." Her finger had traced the three perfect stars, then connected them to the rest of the hunter's form.

  Clive stepped onto the balcony, where Jill had spread their woolen blanket. The flask of spiced cider steamed between them as he settled beside her, their shoulders touching.

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  "And the moon," Jill continued, pointing up at the full moon that headlined the night sky. "It’s incredible tonight."

  Clive smiled, stealing a glance at her profile in the silvery light. "I don’t know… I’m a bit distracted by the view right here."

  "Stop it," she laughed, nudging him with her elbow. He caught the blush spreading across her cheeks.

  "The Elder's Arch," Jill said, tracing her finger along a constellation. "And there—the Painter's Palette."

  "You just made that one up," Clive laughed.

  "Maybe," she grinned, turning to face him. "But isn't that what our ancestors did? Looked up and saw whatever they wanted to see?"

  She slipped her hand into his, her skin warm despite the chill. Her fingers fit perfectly between his.

  "Clive, promise me something,” she whispered, "promise that when there’s a full moon, you’ll always come out to look at it. I'll be watching it too, from wherever I am. "

  Clive's chest tightened. "Why? Are you planning on going somewhere?"

  She rested her head against his shoulder. "No. But if we're ever apart... it'd be nice to know we're looking at the same thing."

  He kissed her forehead, breathing in her scent. "Deal."

  "Good," she whispered, settling her head against his shoulder.

  “Jill, are you looking at the moon?” Clive wondered as he settled on the edge of the town’s square fountain. Its water reflected the silver moon as its gentle burbling provided a counterpoint to Clive’s troubled thoughts. He dipped his fingers into the cool water, watching as the ripples expanded outward.

  Under the moon's glow, he began to draw. First, the square itself, with its uneven cobblestones and the fountain at its heart. Then, the giant moon above it. As he sketched, his mind wandered back to Jill. His dedication to art had strained their relationship. Now, when art was his power, what would she think?

  When he finally set down his pencil, he noticed that he'd unconsciously added a figure to his drawing—a woman standing at the edge of the square, her face turned up toward the moon.

  A church bell somewhere in the village tolled midnight, the sound reverberating through the empty square.

  "Excuse me, you shouldn't be out here alone," a smooth voice called out from behind him. "Not at this hour."

  Clive was startled, nearly dropping his sketchbook into the fountain. He turned to find the Saintess standing a few paces away.

  "The Devil hunts by moonlight," she said, stepping closer. “He seeks those who wander alone.” Her boots clicked softly against the cobblestones. "We've lost too many already. I couldn't bear to see another empty chair at morning prayer."

  Clive met her gaze steadily. " I appreciate your concern, but I'm not afraid of the Devil." His tone was clipped, masking his irritation at the interruption. These religious types always seemed to think they knew better than everyone else.

  Her lips curved into a half-smile. "If only everyone shared your courage."

  She glanced up at the moon. The pearl beads in her hair reflected the moonlight, creating a subtle halo effect. "Fear gives the Devil his power. The less we fear, the weaker his grip becomes."

  She moved to the fountain's edge beside him and traced her fingertips through the water, disturbing the moon's reflection.

  "And what brings you out here?" Clive asked, shifting slightly to maintain distance between them. "Isn't it dangerous to wander alone at night? Or are you exempt from your own warnings?"

  Her eyes widened, perhaps surprised at his directness. " The rules of danger apply to all, But sometimes duty outweighs caution. Sometimes..." she paused, looking back at the moon, " I find the silence of night better for hearing God's whispers than the noise of day."

  Clive paused. He'd expected righteous indignation or a sermon about wandering souls. Instead, her response was genuine. He looked down at his sketchbook, suddenly aware of how confrontational he had been.

  Her gaze drifted to the sketchbook in his hands. "And to what purpose brings you out into the night?"

  "I felt inspired to draw."

  "In the dark?" Her eyebrow arched with skepticism.

  "The moonlight is enough." He gestured upward. "Artists have been painting by moonlight for centuries."

  The Saintess studied him for a moment. Then she extended her hand, palm up. "May I take a look?"

  Clive hesitated. Sharing his art felt intimate, especially this piece that had unconsciously captured his longing for Jill. Still, something in her sincere interest made him relent. He handed over his sketchbook.

  The Saintess paused, deep in thought. Finally, she said, "Interesting. Most people draw the moon as a symbol of divine light. But yours feels different."

  “How so?”

  “It’s so bright, yet isolated. Surrounded by stars but never touching them.” Her finger traced the moon's outline on the paper. "Like it's calling out to someone who can't hear."

  Her gaze shifted to the figure in the drawing. "And this woman, she's reaching for something that's always just beyond her grasp."

  Clive stared at her, taken aback. He hadn't expected this depth from her, this understanding of the ache he'd drawn without meaning to. Perhaps he had misjudged her.

  "That's quite a thoughtful interpretation, though not quite what I intended." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I see the moon differently. To me, it represents connection, not isolation. It's distant, yes, but the woman, she’s not reaching for the moon— she’s sharing it. Somewhere else, someone is looking up at the same light."

  The Saintess's eyes widened slightly, as though seeing the drawing anew. "Connection across distance." She looked back at the sketch, then at Clive. "How strange that we could see the same object so differently."

  "Maybe that says more about us than the moon," Clive offered quietly.

  She looked up sharply, as if his words had caught her off guard. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither spoke. The fountain's gentle bubbling filled the silence.

  "You know," she finally said, "there may be some truth in that." She glanced back at the sketch, then up at the real moon hanging above them. For a moment, her composed expression cracked, allowing a glimpse behind the fa?ade.

  "When I was young, before the church," she continued, "I used to watch the moon from my window each night." Her fingers absently smoothed the edge of the paper. "I always wondered why it looked so bright yet felt so distant."

  She paused, as if she hadn't planned to say so much. "Perhaps I understand both feelings now."

  "The perspective changes us," Clive said softly.

  “Perhaps it does…” She handed back the sketchbook, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. "I should go now. Your perspective is... illuminating, thank you."

  With that, she disappeared into the shadows of the night, leaving Clive to wonder about the woman behind the title of Saintess.

  As he made his way back, there was a sudden shout in the air.

  “Incursion!”

  I trace your promise on cobblestones and foreign stars

  This moon we carved from silver vows still burns above my exile's heart.

  Do you feel it?

  This light that braids between us,

  Thread by thread,

  Weaving what the world pulled apart?

  I stand beneath our faithful witness,

  And know that somewhere you are watching the same bright coin we spent on hope.

  -Clive Weston