Celeste

  The morning was cruel.

  I woke to a hammering in my skull, each thud of my heartbeat loud enough to rattle the inside of my head. My mouth was dry as dust, and when I tried to swallow, the taste of stale ale clung to the back of my throat. The light creeping through the shutters stabbed at my eyes like knives.

  I groaned and dragged the blanket over my face, wishing the world away. It smelled faintly of soap and smoke. It was cleaner than anything I’d slept in for months, but it did nothing to ease the pounding in my head.

  What happened? I tried to piece the night together. Music, laughter, mugs slammed on tables. Someone clapped me on the back… Art’s arm under mine, steady as stone. Heat flushed my cheeks even as the memory blurred into the haze of ale.

  A floorboard creaked. I cracked one eye open, wincing at the light. Art was at the table, sitting with his back straight as always, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, the morning sun catching on the scars across his forearm. He looked like he’d been awake for hours.

  “You’re alive,” he said without looking up.

  “Barely,” I croaked. My voice scraped against my throat like gravel.

  His mouth twitched. “You’ll survive. First hangover’s always the worst.”

  I pushed myself upright too fast and immediately regretted it. The room tilted and I clutched the bedframe, muttering a curse.

  “Slowly,” he said, almost amused. He set the whetstone aside and finally looked at me, his eyes scanning over my disheveled hair, the rumpled blanket, my obvious misery. “Do you remember anything?”

  Heat crawled higher up my neck. Bits and pieces. Along with the most mortifying memory of all. My own voice, slurred and reckless: Don’t look so serious. I don’t bite… unless you ask.

  I wished the floor would open and swallow me whole.

  “I… remember enough,” I muttered.

  “Good,” he said lightly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk. He picked the sword back up and went on sharpening as if nothing had happened.

  The calm of it only made my stomach twist harder. I pressed a hand to my forehead, groaning again. “Please tell me this goes away.”

  “In a few hours.” He set the blade down, reached into his satchel, and slid a small flask across the table. “Water. Drink.”

  I shuffled over, each step heavy as stone, and took it. The water was cool, almost sweet, and it soothed the raw dryness in my throat. I drank deep, then lowered it with a gasp.

  Art leaned back in his chair, watching me over folded arms. “So,” he said, voice dry as the air outside, “still think you can outdrink farmers?”

  I closed my eyes and let my forehead rest on the table. “Never again.”

  Art’s chuckle was low and quiet.

  I cracked one eye at him. “Why aren’t you miserable too? You drank even more than I did.”

  He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I can hold my own. But it’s more than that. My Healing gives me an edge. Makes it harder to get drunk, harder to stay drunk… and harder to feel the price of it afterward.”

  I groaned and lifted my head, squinting at him. “Then why isn’t mine like that? Shouldn’t I be immune to this?”

  The faintest smile tugged at his mouth. “You drank grown men under the table, Celeste. That’s more than most can say. You just don’t see it yet because you’re new to all this.”

  My stomach twisted, though I wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or the reminder. “So what, you’re telling me I’ll eventually be able to drink like you and not feel it?”

  He raised a brow. “Among other things. Healing takes time to grow into. You’re only scratching the surface.”

  I slumped back onto the bed with a groan, clutching the blanket. “That doesn’t help me now.”

  He rose from the chair, slow and deliberate, and crossed the short space between us. “Sit up,” he murmured, the words more coaxing than firm. His hand slipped beneath my shoulder, steadying me as he eased me upright from where I’d collapsed against the blanket. The world tilted for a moment, but he kept me anchored until I found balance again.

  Then his touch shifted. His palm came to rest against my face, thumb brushing along my cheekbone while his other fingers curved warm against the hollow of my neck.

  “What are you–”

  “Hold still.”

  The words were plain enough, but his voice carried a softness that startled me. Heat pulsed beneath his hand, sinking deeper, steady as a heartbeat not my own. The pounding in my skull dulled with every breath, the queasiness in my stomach easing until all that remained was the solid weight of him there, anchoring me.

  I exhaled, letting my eyes fall shut, too tired to question the closeness. “That… actually helped.”

  His thumb moved, just slightly, almost a caress, almost nothing at all. “Good.” He murmured.

  I opened my eyes again, catching his for a fleeting moment before he looked away. Still, he didn’t move his hand. It lingered at my cheek as if the Healing wasn’t quite finished, though the ache had already faded. I didn’t protest. I leaned into it without meaning to, too worn down to care, and the warmth of him seeped into places the Healing couldn’t touch.

  When at last he drew his hand back, the air against my skin felt colder for the loss.

  Almost without thinking, my own hand lifted to where his had been. My fingers brushed the spot, lingering there as if the warmth might still be caught in my skin.

  Art cleared his throat and leaned away, reaching for his satchel by the table. “Drink more water,” he said evenly, his tone sliding back into the practical.

  I dropped my hand quickly, embarrassed at being caught in the small gesture. “Right. Water.”

  He tightened the straps on the satchel, then glanced back at me with his usual steady expression. “We’ve got a full day ahead. Eat something, clear your head. I want to ask around, see if there are any whispers of bounties moving through town. The sooner I know who’s watching the roads, the better our chances when we head toward Rodin.”

  I nodded, though the thought of food still made my stomach turn. He was already thinking ahead, steady as ever. While I felt as thought I was still trying to find my footing.

  “Get dressed,” he added, his voice quieter, though not unkind. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone in the little room. My hand drifted to my cheek again before I could stop it, heat rising under my fingers at the memory of his touch. I shook it off, forcing myself upright. There were bigger things to worry about than the way his hand had felt against my skin.

  The morning air hit sharp and cool when I stepped out of the inn, though the streets were already alive with sound. Merchants barked their wares from beneath bright awnings, voices carrying over the hum of foot traffic. Horses clopped over cobblestones, children darted between stalls, and the scents of spices, smoke, and baking somewhere close by, layered so thick I couldn’t sort one from the other.

  Greyfen’s market was a world unto itself.

  I slowed without meaning to, my eyes catching on everything at once. Bolts of fabric hung in shimmering cascades of color I’d never imagined, bright as autumn leaves. A woman ground herbs with a stone pestle, the smell sharp and heady, while another stacked jars of honey so golden they caught the morning sun like glass lanterns. A cage of squawking birds fluttered as I passed, feathers flashing green and blue, nothing like the dull sparrows that haunted my village.

  I must have lingered too long because Art’s voice sounded at my shoulder. “Try not to look so wide-eyed.”

  I tore my gaze from the stall of trinkets I’d been staring at, cheeks warming. “I’ve never seen half of this before.”

  “Exactly,” he said, tone dry as kindling. “Which is why you shouldn’t gawk. Someone will see you coming a league away and charge double.”

  That earned him a frown, but I kept walking, only to falter again at the next stall. There was fruit I didn’t recognize, oblong with a skin of mottled red and yellow that shone like polished stone. The vendor caught me staring and, with a practiced slice, split one open. Inside, the flesh gleamed a rich golden hue, clinging thick around a pale pit. Juiced welled at the cut, sticky and fragrant, and he offered me a slice with a smile that suggested he already knew I’d never tasted its like.

  I hesitated. Art didn’t. He plucked it neatly from the man’s hand and passed it to me. “Taste.”

  The juice burst sharp and sweet over my tongue, startling enough that I gasped. The vendor chuckled.

  “Not everything here will bite you,” Art said. There was the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  I wiped my chin with the back of my hand, glaring at him even as I reached for another slice. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “And missed that face? Never.”

  The vendor leaned forward, smile widening when I reached for another piece. “A fine taste, eh? For you lovely girl, three coppers each.”

  I froze, the sweet juice still on my tongue. Three coppers? For fruit? My hand hovered near my pouch, uncertain.

  Before I could speak, Art’s hand closed over mine, setting it back at my side. He plucked the fruit the vendor had been offering and set two coppers at the table. His voice was calm, but sharp enough to cut. “They’re worth one each. No more.”

  The man’s smile faltered. “Imported fruit, it’s hard to come by. Worth every coin.”

  “Not today,” Art said. His gaze didn’t waver, and after a tense beat, the vendor snatched the coppers and muttered under his breath.

  Art dropped the fruit into his satchel and steered me away from the stall.

  I glanced up at him, cheeks warming. “Was he really–”

  “Trying to rob you blind? Obviously.” His tone was dry, but not unkind. “Next time, don’t look so eager. You nearly paid a week’s worth for something I could’ve plucked from a roadside orchard.”

  My mouth opened to argue, but the corner of his lips twitched again, the faintest smile. “Still worth the copper, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glare and smile at the same time.”

  I shoved at his arm, though I couldn’t quite smother my laugh.

  The market pressed tighter as we moved on, the air alive with voices and music. A songstress stood on a low wooden platform, skirts brushing her ankles as she sang. Her voice rose above the crowd, clear and full, weaving through the bustle like silk.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The melody carried something of the river in it, bright and quick one moment, then soft as a lullaby the next. A small drum kept time at her feet, struck by a boy no older than twelve, the rhythm steady beneath her soaring notes. People clapped in time, coins ringing as they hit the tin bowl placed at her side.

  I stopped without meaning to, pulled in as if her voice had caught me by the sleeve. The sound wrapped around me, tugging at something I couldn’t name. A pair of children tried to mimic her, spinning in clumsy circles until they collapsed in a heap of laughter.

  Beside me, Art stood with arms crossed, his gaze sweeping the crowd more than the performer. But when I glanced at him, I caught it, the faintest softening in his eyes, as though the song had brushed against him too before he forced the steel back into place.

  I looked away quickly, pretending not to notice, and my gaze landed on a nearby stall draped with small trinkets. Carved pendants, polished stones bound in wire, charms strung on leather cord.

  The last note of the song lingered in the air even after the crowd began to scatter, leaving only the soft rattle of coins in the singer’s bowl. I lingered a little longer, unwilling to let the moment go.

  Art was already moving again. I hurried to catch up, but my eyes caught on a small stall tucked between a potter and leatherworker.

  Strings of pendants swayed in the breeze, polished stones bound in silver wire, small carvings of wolves, ravens, and foxes hanging from leather cords. Nothing grand, nothing costly, but all carefully made. I stopped short, my feet rooted to the cobblestones.

  Art glanced back. “What is it?”

  I shook my head quickly. “Nothing. Just… wait here a moment.”

  His brows drew together faintly, but he didn’t argue.

  I turned to the stallkeeper, an older woman with kind eyes and roughened hands. My fingers hovered over the array before settling on a piece of iron etched with a wolf’s head. Simple, sturdy. Exactly the sort of thing he might actually wear without complaint.

  “This one,” I said.

  The woman followed my glance toward Art, who stood a little ways off, arms folded. She smiled as though she knew more than she let on. “A good choice.”

  I paid before my courage could falter and returned to him, pressing the pendant into his hand.

  He looked down at it, then at me. “What’s this?”

  “A gift,” I said, more firmly than I felt. “You buy things for me. It’s only fair.”

  For a moment, I thought he might hand it back. Instead, he slipped the cord over his wrist tucking the wolf’s head against his skin. “Practical enough,” he said at last, his tone even, though something quieter lurked beneath it.

  I tried not to smile too wide, but the warmth that spread though my chest felt almost giddy.

  We walked on after that, weaving deeper into the market streets. Art veered toward a broad wooden board nailed against the wall near the square. Dozens of parchment sheets flapped in the breeze, tacked in messy layers.

  Before we got too close, his hand brushed my arm. “Keep back. Pull your hood up.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Your hair,” he said simply, quiet but firm. “It stands out.”

  Reluctantly, I drew the hood over my head, tucking the red strands beneath the fabric, and stepped to the side while he approached the board. From where I stood, I could only catch pieces: the scrawled writing, the way his eyes scanned every line like each one carried a hidden answer.

  He lingered, still as stone, until a man waiting behind him cleared his throat impatiently. Only then did he step aside and move on.

  It went on like that through the afternoon. At a smithy, he waved me toward a shaded wall before striking up a conversation with the craftsman. At a tavern doorway, he told me to wait across the street. At a wagon, while two men loaded crates, he angled his head for me to hang back, then went forward alone.

  Each time, I obeyed, though irritation gnawed at me. To any passerby, I must have looked like a lost girl clinging to her hood while he drifted from stranger to stranger.

  All I caught were fragments. The smith shaking his head, muttering something I couldn’t hear. The wagon men shrugging, pointing east. A barkeep leaning on the doorway, lowering his voice until I couldn’t make out a word. Every time Art returned, his shoulders seemed a little heavier, though his face never shifted.

  By the time the sun dipped lower and lanterns were being lit, he finally returned to me for good.

  “Well?” I asked, tugging the hood back just enough to breathe in the cool air.

  “Nothing worth worrying about,” he said. His tone was even, but the words landed heavier than he intended.

  I let it go. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that all this wandering, all those quiet conversations, hadn’t given him what he’d been after. And that the silence weighed on him more than any answer ever could.

  We stopped at one last board on the far end of the square. The parchment here was newer, tacked up in neat rows, but Art studied them no differently than the others. I kept my hood drawn low, waiting where he’d told me, trying not to fidget under the gaze of passerby.

  When he finally turned back, his expression hadn’t changed, but I could feel the shift in him. He walked to me, his steps quiet, his eyes unreadable.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  I searched his face. “You found something?”

  His pause stretched a breath too long. “Not on the boards. Nothing posted. No bounties, no notices. Whoever wants you taken hasn’t gone through the open channels. They’re hiring directly.” His gaze drifted briefly over the crowd, then settled back on me. “But I know who’s behind it.”

  My stomach tightened. “Who?”

  “They call themselves the Black Veil,” he said flatly.

  The name meant nothing to me, but the weight of his tone made my throat go dry.

  “Well, they don’t call themselves anything,” he corrected after a beat, as though catching my confusion. “That’s what others call them. Traffickers, slavers, worse. They’ve got a fairly large network, too large for anyone to pin down. Never in the same place twice. If you strike one nest, three more crop up somewhere else.

  My chest constricted. I didn’t need the name to know who he meant. I remembered the firelight flickering against wet stone, the stink of iron shackles.

  I swallowed, cutting the thought short. “So it was them,” I said quietly.

  “It was.” He adjusted the strap on his satchel, his gaze flicking across the crowd again before returning to me. “But…” His words trailed off, his jaw working. “Something’s still wrong. The men they’ve sent after you. They were too skilled, too clean. Not the kind I’d expect from their ranks. I can’t place it yet.”

  The admission unsettled me more than his certainty. Art was steady, unshakeable, never one to doubt himself out loud.

  Art’s eyes swept the square one last time before he exhaled through his nose. “That’s enough for today.”

  I tilted my head. “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” he said firmly. Then, softer, “We leave tomorrow. Which means you’ve got the rest of the day to enjoy yourself while we still can.”

  The words surprised me. Art never framed things like that. For enjoyment. For anything beyond survival.

  We walked the markets again, but this time his pace wasn’t sharp, his eyes not as searching. We paused to watch a juggler balancing knives while children shrieked with delight.

  By the time we’d wound back toward the square, the lamps were being lit, warm light spilling across the cobblestones. I thought we were finished, but Art stopped at a jeweler’s stall.

  “Wait here,” he said, already pulling a coin from his pouch.

  I blinked, tugging my hood back a little. “Art–”

  He ignored me, speaking quietly to the vendor. A moment later he turned and held out a small box. Inside lay a thin chain with a rectangular ruby pendant, its deep red glowing warm in the lamplight.

  “For me?” The words came out smaller than I meant.

  His mouth twitched, half a smile, half something else. “You bought me something. Fair’s fair.” He lifted the necklace before I could protest and slipped it over my head, the stone settling cool against my collarbone. The stone gleamed brighter still against my hair, almost as if it had been chosen for that alone.

  I touched it lightly with my fingers, not trusting my voice.

  “Matches,” he said simply, stepping back as if that explained everything.

  It was more than enough.

  The town felt different that evening. Where yesterday the market had been a crush of bartering and noise, tonight lanterns were strung between posts, and the smell of roasting meat carried through the square. Laughter spilled out of every open doorway, voice raised in song. It reminded me of what the older villagers back home used to say about festival nights, though ours had never been this large or this loud.

  Art didn’t steer us to the quiet inn we’d slept in before. Instead, he angled us toward a tavern with a painted sign of a stag’s head, music already spilling from its windows. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the smell of ale, roasted pork, and pipe smoke. A fiddler played from atop a table, his tune swallowed by the chorus of voices shouting to keep time.

  I expected Art to make for a shadowed corner, as he always did. Instead, he took a seat closer to the center, setting two mugs down before I could blink.

  “You’re not usually this eager,” I said, eyeing him over the foam.

  “You wanted to prove it,” he said evenly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Tonight seems as good a night as any.”

  I flushed, remembering yesterday’s words. “Oh? So you do want to keep up with me?”

  His mouth twitched. “We’ll see who keeps up with who.”

  By the time we’d finished the first round, we were drawn into one of the games at the next table. A simple ring-toss, iron hoops thrown toward pegs hammered into the floor. Losers drank. Winners pointed out the next victim.

  They shoved a ring into Art’s hand, laughing that he’d never make it with shoulders that broad. He said nothing, only narrowed his eyes at the target. The ring spun from his hand and landed dead on the center peg.

  The table roared.

  He played again, and again, never missing. By the third round the men were groaning, accusing him of sorcery, while Art only sipped his ale like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “You’re a Caster, aren’t you?” one of them called, half-daring, half-jeering. “I’ll wager a silver it’s Wind you’re using!”

  The crowd leaned in, eager for a spectacle. Art set his mug down and lifted his hand over it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then water beaded across his palm, gathering until it slipped free and poured in a steady stream straight into the mug. Clear, cold, and unmistakably his.

  The tavern burst into laughter and applause, the man who’d accused him smacking the table in delight. “A Water Caster! Hah! Knew it was something!”

  Art only raised his brows, calm as stone, before tossing the ring again. Dead center. The other groaned and drank.

  But I had seen the faint stir of air, the way the hoop curved just-so.

  “You’re still cheating,” I said under my breath, leaning closer so only he could hear.

  He slid me a look, mouth twitching as though he were fighting down a smile. “Then you’ll just have to prove it.”

  The night blurred into flashes of music and laughter, each moment tumbling over the next.

  But the heart of it all became the table where Art sat.

  What started as a few rounds of ring toss shifted into something louder, rowdier. A drinking contest that stretched the length of the hall. Two mugs were set out. The rules were simple: drink until one faltered, then another challenger took the loser’s place.

  Art never moved.

  One man went down after five rounds, another after two, then a red-faced farmer after barely one. Each time, Art drained his mug steady and unhurried, setting it down with the same calm finality before motioning the next. The crowd around the table grew until half the tavern seemed to be gathered, cheering or jeering, coins changing hands with every new match.

  I sat at his side, torn between amusement and disbelief. His cheeks had warmed, his eyes just a little too bright, but he never wavered. Mug after mug disappeared in front of him, his challengers staggering off to laughter and groans.

  “You’re actually enjoying this,” I murmured half to myself.

  His gaze flicked toward me, and for the first time that night his smile was unguarded, unhidden by that usual mask of his. “Maybe I am.”

  The words sank deeper than the ale ever could.

  I straightened, heart thudding louder than the tavern noise. “Then let’s see how much.”

  His brow lifted, though the smile lingered. “See how much what?”

  “How much you’re enjoying yourself.” I nudged one of the empty mugs toward him. “Drink against me.”

  A few men nearby overheard, and the challenge caught like fire. Fresh mugs slammed onto the table, the crowd jeering and laughing, eager for one more spectacle.

  Art’s eyes held mine, weighing me for a long moment. Then he reached for a mug, steady as ever. “You’ll regret that,” he said, his voice low, but the amusement threading through it made my skin prickle.

  I grinned, warmth and ale burning together in my chest. “Prove it.”

  The crowd howled as we lifted our mugs.

  The first round burned hot down my throat, but I slammed the mug down with a grin, foam dripping across my fingers. Art matched me, the crowd banging their fists against the table.

  Another pair of mugs appeared, then another. The noise swelled around us, clapping, cheering, chanting my name though none of them actually knew it. My head felt light, the edges of the room softening, but I refused to falter.

  Art stayed steady, but the flush along his cheekbones grew darker with each round. His hand lingered on the table a moment too long after the third mug, his fingers curling against the wood. He raised the next, but when he set it down his other hand gripped the edge of the table, steadying himself.

  The crowd caught it before I did, shouting, laughing, and pounding the wood. He met my gaze, unguarded, his smile slanting rueful this time. “That’s enough,” he admitted, voice lower but still even.

  The tavern erupted into cheers, half of them celebrating the win. Music struck up again, faster now, strings and drum pounding together. The crowd surged toward the open space near the hearth, bodies spinning, boots stomping against the floorboards.

  I caught Art before he could sink back into his chair, my hand locking around his wrist. “Not done yet.”

  He raised a brow, already shaking his head, but I tugged harder. The crowd swallowed us whole, pulling him from the table and into the press of bodies.

  “Celeste–”

  “Dance with me!”

  For once, he didn’t fight it.

  The music spun around us, wild and loud, and for the first time since I’d met him, Art let himself be pulled into it. Art’s hand settled at my waist to steady me through the whirl of the crowd, warm even through the fabric. My own hand curled at his shoulder, the strength in him so certain and unyielding it made the floor feel steady beneath his feet. His eyes caught mine as we moved, brighter than I’d ever seen them, alive in a way I didn’t think he could be.

  The ale burned hot in my chest, loosening every thought I might have held back. The sound of the crowd blurred, the fiddler’s song stretched thin. I leaned in before I could second-guess it, my heart leaping higher than the music.

  His lips met mine, warm, certain. For a moment the rest of the world ceased to exist – no crowd, no music, no fighting to survive. Only the press of him, steady and unyielding, the faint taste of ale still on his breath. I lingered there, caught in the heat and the ache, wishing it could last.

  Then he pulled back.

  His breath brushed against my cheek as his hand lingered at my side, then slipped away. His voice was low, rougher than usual. “No… we can’t.”

  I froze, blinking at him. “Why not?”

  His jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, I thought he might tell me. Something real, something that would explain everything he kept behind those guarded eyes. Instead, he shook his head once, the words falling flat. “It’s just not right.”

  The music crashed around us, laughter and cheers filling the tavern as the dancers spun past. But between us, there was only silence.

  Before I could reach for him, he stepped back, turning from the floor. The crowd parted without resistance, swallowing him in their movement, until all I could see was the back of his shoulders as he walked away.

  I stood in the middle of the room, the ruby at my throat heavy and cold against my skin, the warmth of his touch already fading.