Celeste

  When I stirred, the first thing I heard was water. A steady trickle, cool and constant, threading through the quiet. I blinked against the glare, branches overhead breaking the sunlight into soft patches. The ground was firm beneath me, grass damp with shade.

  I shifted, slow and clumsy, until the ache in my body reminded me of what I’d done. Hollow, drained, like I’d been wrung out to the bone.

  “You’re awake.”

  His voice drew my gaze sideways. Art sat not far off, back against the tree trunk, a pan balanced over a small flame. The smell of cooked meat and herbs drifted toward me, sharp enough to make my stomach tighten. Two canteens rested on a rock nearby, darkened from the water he’d drawn.

  He didn’t move right away, just watched me steady myself with that unreadable calm. “You were out longer than I expected. A good stretch of daylight.”

  I pushed up onto my elbows, breath slightly heavy. “By the creek?”

  “I carried you.” He said it like it was nothing, as if my weight, my limp body, hadn’t been a burden at all. “Figured water and shade couldn’t hurt.”

  I lowered my gaze, heat prickling my cheeks despite the cool air. My mouth was dry, my body still heavy, but the scent of food pulled me forward. He reached for one of the canteens and passed it over without a word.

  The water was cool, clean, and it steadied the tremor in my hands.

  “You cooked?” I asked him.

  His mouth tugged at one corner. “Didn’t want you waking to nothing.”

  The simple words sank deeper than they should have. I looked down, brushing grass from my palms, hoping he couldn’t read the warmth rising in my face.

  I drank deep from my canteen again, the water cooling the rawness in my throat, but I couldn’t wash away the ache in my body. The memory of the fall lingered sharp and humiliating.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep doing that,” I muttered. “Over and over. I hate it. The way it feels, going under like that. Like I’ve lost everything”

  Art stirred the pan, not looking at me right away. “That’s because you did. That’s what it means to drain the well.”

  I shot him a glare. “That’s not helpful.”

  His mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. “Didn’t say it was meant to be.”

  “If I’m supposed to collapse like that every day, I hope you don’t mind being my cushion every time I pass out.”

  He finally glanced over, one brow lifting. “At least you don’t snore.”

  A laugh escaped me, sharper and lighter than I expected. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And you’re stubborn,” he countered, calm as ever. “Makes us even.”

  The food wasn’t much, fish pulled from the creek, cooked crisp over the pan with a few wild herbs he must’ve gathered nearby. But after waking hollow, it tasted better than any feast. I ate slowly, each bite easing the ache in my stomach, washing it down with cool water from the creek. Art didn’t say much, just kept watch on the quiet stretch of hills while the fire crackled low between us.

  When I finally set the tin aside, I drew a breath. “How many times are you planning to make me do this?”

  His answer came without hesitation. “Again. In a few hours.”

  I nearly choked. “A few hours? You can’t be serious.”

  He looked at me then, calm as ever. “We don’t have many days before we reach Rodin. Best to push while you’re with me. Out here, I can protect you while you recover. Once we’re there, you won’t have that luxury.”

  My mouth fell open, but no argument came. The logic was sound, infuriatingly so.

  A faint glint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, it’ll make the trip seem quicker.”

  I narrowed my eyes, heat rising in my cheeks despite myself. “At this point, I think you just like holding me.”

  He didn’t deny it. Just gave the smallest huff of breath, almost a laugh, before turning back to the fire.

  When the last of the fish was gone and the fire nothing more than a scatter of gray ash, Art rose without a word. He poured the dregs of the creek water over the stones, then kicked dirt across the embers until the ground looked as though no one had rested there at all. His movements were practiced, efficient, not a motion wasted.

  I gathered myself more slowly, still stiff from the hollow ache Enervation left behind. My fingers fumbled with the cinch on my saddle until Art’s shadow fell over me. He checked the strap himself, giving it a firm tug before stepping back.

  “Still weak?” he asked.

  “I can manage.” My voice came out thinner than I liked, but I lifted the reins anyway.

  He studied me for a breath, then gave the faintest nod. “Mount up, then.”

  With more effort than I wanted him to notice, I swung into the saddle. The leather creaked under my weight, and my horse shifted, ears flicking back at the sudden tug. I smoothed a hand over her neck, steadying us both. Art mounted his own in a single motion, his posture easy, as if he hadn’t just carried me half the day.

  The road stretched ahead in a long pale ribbon between the hills. He set the pace, steady and unhurried, the kind meant to last until evening. I fell in beside him, the creek fading behind us until all that remained was the smell of water on my skin and the taste of ash still clinging faintly to my tongue.

  For a while I said nothing, content to let the silence carry us forward. But the question pressed in, insistent, until I finally broke it. “You’ve done this before,” I said. “Trained someone like me.”

  Art shook his head. “No. I’ve trained Casters, yes. But not like you.”

  I frowned, turning in the saddle. “You mean, no other Aberrations?”

  His gaze stayed on the road ahead. “Aberrations aren’t all the same. Some are born with deep wells – deeper than most – and through enough turmoil, they can ignite more than one element. I’ve met a few like that. Once, I even fought beside a man who could cast three.”

  My grip on the reins tightened. “Three.”

  Art gave a short nod. “But a well that deep isn’t the same as ours. They can hold more, yes, but it doesn’t change what they are. They still break when they push too far. They still die if they gamble with Enervation and lose. Healing changes that.”

  The words made my chest tighten. “Because we survive it.”

  “Exactly.” His eyes flickered toward me, then back to the horizon. “Healing means the vessel doesn’t just recover. It rebuilds. It stretches without breaking. That’s what makes us different. That’s why I’ve lived as long as I have.”

  A beat passed, the steady pace of the horses filling the space between us.

  “You think…” I hesitated, then forced the words out. “You think I could become like you. That I could learn more elements.”

  Art’s expression didn’t change, but his tone carried the weight of certainty. “I don’t just think it. I believe it. You’re already walking the same path I did. A Healer with another ability. An Aberration. That combination doesn’t just survive. It grows from it. And if I’m right…” His gaze caught mine, steady and unwavering. “…then you’ll gain more than you realize.”

  I looked away, heart pounding, the road blurring as the thought sank in. More elements. More power. It should have thrilled me. Instead, all I could think of was the promised waiting in Rodin, and whether even that would be enough.

  After a while, I found my voice again. “How many?” I asked, a little eagerly. “How many could I learn?”

  Art’s reins shifted in his hands, the leather creaking. “I can’t tell you that.”

  I turned toward him, brows drawn. “Then which ones? Do you even know?”

  His gaze fixed on me, steady as ever. “No. I told you before, ignition is tied to emotion. A Fire Caster is likely to wake to rage or resolve. A Water Caster to sorrow, or grief. Every element is bound to what you feel when the vessel first tears open, and that caster must be attuned to it for it to ignite. That’s not something anyone can predict. Not for you, not for me.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I bit down on my lip, unsatisfied. “But if I’m like you…”

  “You’ll have the chance,” he cut in. “That’s all I can tell you. More than most ever get. But chance isn’t certainty. Whatever else lies inside you will only wake when it’s forced to.”

  His words hung in the air like a weight I couldn’t shake. I stared at the rolling hills, mind racing with what could be waiting. Fire, water, wind, or something stranger still. The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating.

  A smile tugged at my mouth before I realized it. “So it’s possible. I could learn more. When did it happen for you? When did you start gaining yours?”

  For the first time, his composure faltered just slightly. His reins shifted in his hands, his jaw tightening before he answered. “Not all at once.”

  I leaned toward him, curiosity sparking despite the ache in my body. “Then how long? A year? Two?”

  “Longer,” he said, his tone firm, closing the space between us. “It takes time. Training. Strain. More than you can imagine.”

  I frowned, unwilling to let it go so easily. “But eventually you just… woke up one day with another element?”

  His eyes flicked to me, sharp enough to still my questions. “Eventually, yes. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  I sat back in the saddle, heat rising to my cheeks. He wasn’t angry, but the edge in his tone told me not to press further. Still, excitement coiled beneath my ribs, refusing to be put out. If it had taken him years to gain more, then maybe… maybe it was only a matter of time for me too.

  Again, we rode in silence, the sky widening above us as the sun began its slow dip. My reins felt damp in my hands, my palms still raw from the earlier strain. The thought of doing it again made my stomach knot.

  I glanced sideways at him. “What happens if I fail? If I push too far and… don’t come back?”

  His expression didn’t shift, though the weight of his voice did. “That’s why you’re doing it now. With me. If you fall too far, I’ll keep you alive long enough to mend. But I’m not really worried about that. I’ve done it alone more times than I can count. And with no one to guard me, no one to hold me up. But I woke each time.”

  The blunt certainty steadied something in my chest, but the thought lingered, heavier than the words themselves. Him lying somewhere in the dirt, unconscious and alone, forcing himself back form the brink with no one waiting beside him. The image left a tightness in my throat I couldn’t swallow down.

  I looked forward again, watching the sun continue to descend.

  After a beat, I asked, quieter, “Do you ever regret it?”

  He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch my meaning.

  “Having more than one element,” I said. ”Being what you are.”

  For a moment he said nothing, the silence stretching until I thought he might ignore it. Then his gaze slid back to the horizon. “Power doesn’t erase what you’ve lost. It just makes you live with it longer.”

  The words sank like stone in my chest. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing at all. The rhythm of the horses filled the space between us, steady and unrelenting. My thoughts twisted tighter than the reins in my hands, but there was no more I could ask. Not yet.

  Art shifted in his saddle, his voice breaking the quiet again. “We’ll begin once more before dusk. Call the Ardor and hold it steady. This time, you’ll push further.”

  I groaned dramatically, loud enough so that he could hear me, but slowed my horse all the same. With stiff legs I dismounted, tied off the reins, and climbed up in front of him again. The saddle felt even smaller than before, his presence close enough to remind me what was coming.

  “Same as last time,” he said. “One hand, then the other.”

  So I did. Time blurred into rhythm with light being called and released. My breath grew shallow, my vision dimmed, and still he pressed me forward with that steady, unrelenting voice at my back.

  “Not much longer,” he murmured.

  I gave a shaky laugh, the light trembling in my hands. “Better get ready, I don’t get lighter the second time.”

  His arm tightened around my waist as the glow faltered. “At least this way I get some peace and quiet.”

  I meant to answer, to throw back something sharp, but the darkness swept in before I could. My body went limp, and his hold was the last thing I felt before the world slipped away.

  When I woke again, the world felt different. Louder. Brighter.

  Hooves clattered against stone instead of dirt, and voices drifted in on the evening air. Vendors calling out their wares, children laughing somewhere beyond the street. My eyes blinked open to the sight of narrow buildings pressed closer together, lanterns already being lit as the sun dipped low. We were in a town.

  Heat crept into my cheeks as awareness settled in. I was still slumped against Art, his arm steady around me, guiding the reins as if I weighed nothing at all. And people were staring. A pair of women paused at a stall, their conversation faltering as their eyes followed us. A group of boys leaned against a fence, pointing, whispers chasing after us as we passed.

  I straightened quickly, pulling myself upright in the saddle. My limbs felt heavy, sluggish, but I forced composure into them anyway.

  Art didn’t seem to notice, or more likely didn’t care. His expression stayed fixed, calm and unreadable as he guided the horse forward, eyes scanning the street like the stares weren’t even there.

  I tugged at my sleeves, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. “They’re all looking.”

  “Let them,” he said simply, not even glancing their way.

  That was the end of it, at least for him. But my cheeks still burned as the town unfolded around us. It was larger and livelier than Dunwade, though still nowhere near the sprawl of Rodin. Greyfen, I realized, from the name painted on the weathered signs we passed on shops.

  Four more days north, and we’d be in Rodin. Four more days, and I’d be standing where Faylen was held. The thought made my stomach twist tighter than the stares ever could.

  Stalls lined the main street, the smell of baked bread and roasting meat mingling with the sharper tang of tanned leather. People wove between carts and shops, voices carrying with the clatter of hooves and wheels over stone.

  I drew a slow breath, trying to hide the unease in my chest. Wherever we stopped, I only hoped I’d be able to walk on my own two feet again before anyone else decided to stare.

  The main street bent toward a two-story building with the painted sign swinging over the door: a faded image of a stag with antlers curling wide. Lanterns glowed in its windows, the sound of laughter and clinking mugs spilled faintly into the street.

  Art slowed the horse as we drew up to the post outside. I slid down with more wobble than grace, my legs stiff from the ride and the remnants of strain clinging to me. He dismounted behind me in one clean motion, tying off the reins before I had even steadied my footing.

  A stablehand hurried out, a boy with straw clinging to his shirt. “Rooms for the night?” he asked, eyeing the horses more than us.

  Art handed him a coin without hesitation. “Two nights. Feed and water them well.”

  The boy’s face lit with surprise, then he darted to the trough with our reins in hand.

  I gathered my satchel, following Art inside. The inn smelled of warm wood and spiced ale, a sharp contrast to the crisp air outside. The common room was busy, locals at tables, voices carrying in a low hum, the clatter of mugs against wood. Dunwade had been quiet, almost wary. Greyfen was something else entirely.

  Art spoke briefly to the innkeeper, a broad woman with flour still dusted on her apron, then passed me a key. “Upstairs. First on the left.”

  I turned it over in my hand, the weight of it strange. “You already paid?”

  “Always easier,” he said simply, then added, “Leave your things. We’ll eat in town.”

  I climbed the narrow staircase, my boots echoing in the worn steps, and the opened door to a small room with two narrow beds, a table, and a basin. Simple, but clean. I set my satchel down, running my hand over the wooden frame of the bed, trying to imagine sleeping in a place this bustling. My village had been nothing compared to this.

  When I came back down, Art was waiting by the door, already moving toward the street. I followed him out into the evening. Greyfen stretched wide around us, lanterns being lit one by one as the day gave way to dusk. Stalls still lined the street, merchants calling out the last of their goods, and the press of people was more than I had ever seen in one place. It was overwhelming, but strangely thrilling too.

  I slowed as we passed a baker’s stall where flatbread still steamed fresh from the stone. The man behind the counter flipped one onto a board and brushed it with herbs, the smell making my stomach tighten.

  Art stopped just long enough to barter a coin for two pieces, handing one to me without a word. I tore into it while we walked, the crisp edges flaking into my fingers, the flavor rich with oil and garlic.

  “This is incredible,” I said around a mouthful.

  Art gave a faint smile, though he was already scanning the next corner.

  We passed smithies still glowing with fire, a fiddler playing at the edge of the square, the tune fast enough to draw clapping from a small crowd. My eyes drank it in greedily, each sight a reminder of how much larger the world was than the corners I’d known.

  By the time we reached the tavern, I felt dazed from it all. The sign over the door was painted with a fox mid-leap, and laughter spilled out the open shutters, rough and good-natured.

  Inside, the heat and noise wrapped around me like a blanket. Mugs thudded against tables, voices rose in chorus to a song I didn’t know, and the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale tangled thick in the air.

  We found a seat near the back, Art taking the corner where he could keep the room in view. I sat across from him, my heart still racing with the press of it all.

  A woman came to our table, a tray balanced effortlessly on her palm “What’ll it be, handsome?” she asked, already pouring from a jug into a clean mug.

  Art ordered plainly. Some bread, a stew, and ale. When she glanced at me, I started to ask for water, but the words faltered when a man at the next table raised his mug in my direction.

  “A pretty face!” he called, grinning. “That earns a drink!”

  Laughter rippled through the room, light and harmless. Before I could protest, the woman set a second mug down in front of me, foam spilling over the rim.

  My cheeks warmed as I met Art’s gaze. He didn’t move to stop it, just arched a brow and drank his ale. “You’ll offend them if you don’t.”

  I lifted the mug with both hands, the wood cool and damp against my palms. The first sip was bitter, sharp, but warmth spread quickly down my throat, loosening something in my chest I hadn’t realized was tight.

  The men at the other table cheered, clapping the wood with approval, and I laughed before I could stop myself. Before long, more of them drifted over, pulling up benches and crowding around, their voice loud with the ale and good cheer. The press of attention made me shift uneasily, and when one leaned too close, I rose and slid onto the bench beside Art instead.

  The tavern filled fast around us, voices rising with the ale. Somehow I’d ended up with a second mug, then a third, each one pressed into my hand with cheers and laughter from the company that had gathered at our table. A pair of farmers made a contest of it, daring me to keep pace with them. Past the fourth round they were slumping forward on the wood and I was still upright, swaying but laughing. For every one I drank, I swore Art downed two, steady as ever.

  “Didn’t think you had it in you,” one of them mumbled before sliding off his bench.

  The table roared with laughter, and someone clapped me on the back hard enough to send me stumbling against Art. My hand shot out to catch myself, fingers curling around his arm. The steadiness of him startled me. He was solid as stone where I leaned, and warm beneath the rough fabric of his sleeve.

  “You’re steadier than the floor,” I said before I could think better of it, grinning up at him.

  He gave me a dry look. “Not much of a compliment.”

  I laughed and let go, though it took me a moment longer than it should have. The others at the table didn’t notice, too busy calling for another round, but I caught the faint twitch of his mouth before he turned back to the room.

  By the time the night wore thin, I could barely stand. Art caught me as I swayed, pulling my arm over his shoulder without asking. The crowd parted easily for him as he steered me out the door, his grip firm, the cool air shocking against his flushed skin.

  By the time we reached the inn, my legs felt boneless. Art guided me up the narrow stairs and into our room, steadying me with one hand at my arm until I sank clumsily onto the edge of the bed.

  I tilted my head back, hair falling into my face, and squinted up at him through a haze of laughter and ale. “Don’t look so serious. I don’t bite… unless you ask.”

  His mouth twitched, half amused. “You’ll regret saying that in the morning.”

  I meant to argue, to come up with something clever, but the weight of exhaustion pulled me under before I could. The last thing I felt was the brush of his hand against my shoulder, steadying me as the world went dark.