Celeste

  The road never seemed to end. Mud clung to the hooves, sucking with every step, the air damp and heavy as though the storm had only crawled into the earth instead of passing on. My cloak still smelled of smoke from the fire, and every time the wind shifted it reminded me of what I hadn’t said back in that cavern.

  The road sloped gently upward, enough to make my mare’s breath rasp against the damp air. To our right, a narrow track wound away from the main road, sloping down into a shallow hollow where a cluster of homes leaned against one another. A hamlet, small enough to vanish in a blink if the hills swallowed it. The thatch roofs sagged under the weight of the rain, smoke from the few stubborn chimneys twisting faintly into the gray sky. From here, the place looked almost hidden, pressed low against the land as though it wanted no part of the wider world.

  For a moment, the air felt still. Just the hiss of drizzle dripping from my hood, the ache in my legs, the tired rhythm of hooves pulling us forward.

  Art’s gaze cut toward the hamlet, steady, calculating. He didn’t say anything, but I knew the thought was the same as mine. Quiet roads weren’t always safe ones.

  I straightened in the saddle, shifting against the stiffness in my back. And then I heard it. The faint rhythm of something heavier than rain. A cadence, dull at first, like distant thunder.

  Hooves and boots.

  The sound grew clearer as we neared the crest of the hill. My mare’s ears flicked, nostrils flaring, catching it before I did.

  Art slowed, one hand rising in that silent way of his. My chest tightened.

  And then they appeared.

  Over the rise came the first glint of steel, dulled by the storm but unmistakable. A line of figures took shape against the gray sky, ranks tight, their banner heavy with water but still dragging behind them in stubborn color.

  Soldiers.

  Not a handful. A patrol.

  They marched in rhythm, boots slapping wet earth, spears lifted, amor dark with rain. In another dozen paces, they’d see us. Far enough that I could count their shapes but not their faces.

  The hamlet huddled below the hill, its crooked lanes and sagging roofs too close, too exposed. There was nowhere to vanish.

  My pulse thudded sharp against my throat.

  There were twenty at least. Some mounted, others trudging in their wake, armor dull from the damp but no less heavy for it. Spears and blades caught what little light broke through the clouds. And above them, snapping hard in the wet breeze, flew the banner of AurenVale: two jagged peaks, Avarrek and Veynar, each erupting; one in fire, the other in storm. Between them burned a lone star. The mark of the Triarchy.

  Art’s shoulders tightened, though his hands never left the reins. He spared the hamlet one last glance, then leaned toward me, his voice low enough to be carried by the wind and nothing more.

  “Keep riding. Don’t look away, don’t fidget. Just move forward.”

  My throat tightened. “Will they stop us?”

  “They might.” His eyes never left the banner as it dipped closer with each step of the horses. “If they do, let me talk. If they press you, listen close now, tell them we’re husband and wife from Dunwade. That we’re heading for Rodin to visit your sick father.”

  The words came clipped, fast, as thought spoken with a blade to his back.

  “And you?” I asked.

  “A blacksmith.” His mouth twitched with something close to a grim smile. “Easiest lie to carry.”

  The patrol spread wider across the road as it neared, mud churned beneath their boots, hooves striking hollow against the wet ground. They weren’t charging, not yet, but every line of them spoke of practiced order. Of men who knew how to pen prey.

  Art’s voice slipped one last time across the narrow space between us, quiet and certain.

  “Eyes down, Celeste. Breathe. Let me carry the weight of it.”

  The soldiers drew closer, close enough now that I could see their faces through dripping helms, rain streaming down the iron. Close enough that the banner snapped sharp overhead, flame and storm twisting against the gray sky.

  And still we rode forward.

  The soldiers closed the last of the distance, their officer at the front astride a broad-shoulder bay. His helm bore a black plume, soaked through but still lifting faintly with each gust. His voice cut the wet air, sharp and carrying.

  “Halt.”

  The word dropped like an axe.

  Art reined in, slow, measured. I followed, my mare tossing her head as if she felt the press of eyes just as I did. The patrol fanned out, steel and mud hemming us on every side.

  The officer at their head fixed his gaze on Art, voice cutting sharp through the rain. “Where you bound?”

  Art dipped his head, his voice slipping into the rough cadence of a tradesman, steady but touched with wear. “Rodin, Captain. Passing through, that’s all. My wife’s father’s taken ill. We’re on our way to see him before his time runs out. I’ve a forge waiting there as well. No business but our own.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, his horse shifting beneath him. Then his voice cut, sharp and disdainful.

  “Captain is a title for soldiers. I am a Magister. Forget that distinction again, and you’ll find out what separates us.”

  Heat pricked my skin. From where I sat, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference – steel was steel, cloaks were cloaks. Their ranks might as well have been written in another tongue.

  Art bowed his head once, as if conceding the point. “Magister, then. Forgive the mistake.”

  The Magister gave a thin smile, light drops slicking down his helm.

  “A Captain is for marching men. A Magister commands them. A title reserved for Casters of worth. Remember that. Titles matter. A Captain follows the chain. A Magister is the chain.”

  Art’s jaw worked once. “With respect, we’ve no quarrel here. We’re worn, and the road’s long. Better we keep on and leave no burden for your men.”

  The Magister’s tone hardened. “You’ll turn aside. Now.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Rain hissed against the stillness. My hands tightened on the reins until my knuckles burned, the banner above them snapping flame and storm in the wind.

  Art gave the faintest glance my way, then shifted his horse, guiding it toward the track. I swallowed, the patrol wheeled in behind us, closing the road until there was nowhere left to go but down.

  The mud sucked at every step as we turned from the main road, hooves pulling us toward the narrow track that sloped into the hollow. Behind us, the soldiers fell in, their line pressing close enough that I could hear the creak of leather, the clatter of spear hafts. The banner snapped wet above them, flame and storm twisting.

  Art didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, but his voice reached me all the same.

  “Samuel and Anna. Those are our names.”

  The words lodged sharp in my chest. He spoke them like iron hammered flat, no room for argument. I forced a small nod, though his eyes never left the road.

  The hamlet opened beneath us, crooked lanes and sagging thatch pressed low against the earth as though trying to hide. Smoke trickled weak from a handful of chimneys, and the damp smell of manure clung to the air.

  The soldiers didn’t wait. The moment the first boots hits the edge of the lane, voice rang out.

  “Out! Everyone out of their homes!”

  “Gather in the square!”

  “Move, now!”

  Doors creaked open, shutters banged back. Faces pale with rain and fear blinked into the gray light. A boy clutched his mother’s skirts, a farmer still held a hoe in his hands, knuckles white around the haft. The patrol spread through the lane with practiced ease, driving them forward with curt orders and sharper looks.

  And all the while, we kept moving with them, two strangers folded into the herd.

  The order came sharp from behind us.

  “Dismount.”

  Art swung down first, his movements calm, unhurried. I followed, my boots sinking into the muck as the reins slipped through my gloves. A soldier took the lead rope without a word, guiding our horses aside while the rest of the patrol funneled us forward.

  The square was little more than a muddy open space where the hamlet’s lanes bled together. Smoke from the few chimneys curled into the damp air, thin and pale, as if afraid to rise. One by one, the villagers shuffled out. Farmers in rough-spun tunics, wives with shawls pulled tight, children pressed close against their parents.

  The soldiers moved among the houses with cold efficiency, kicking doors open, dragging shutters wide. A voice called, “All clear,” and then another emerged from the last cottage, a young teenage girl. She stumbled as he pushed her forward, but her mother caught her up quickly, holding her close.

  The Magister wheeled his horse into the square’s center, plume dripping rain down his helm. He surveyed the crowd in silence for a moment, letting the weight of his presence drag across us like a blade’s edge.

  Then his voice rose, firm and practiced.

  “AurenVale has need of its people. The realm bleeds at its borders, and only the strong can stem the tide. The Triarchy calls not just for good men and women, but for Casters most of all.”

  The words carried, striking hard in the damp stillness.

  “Casters are worth more than any number of common soldiers. Step forward, and you will be paid well. Gold enough to keep your kin fed and your homes standing. Refuse, and we will take what strength we can find. Healthy men. Healthy women. Whatever the realm requires.”

  His horse shifted beneath him, nostrils flaring, but his voice stayed steady, commanding.

  “AurenVale is generous. Do your duty, and you will be rewarded. Hide, and others will pay the price in your stead.”

  Silence pressed in.

  The villagers stood frozen, faces pale, eyes darting but never landing. A man coughed once, harsh and empty, but no one spoke. No one moved.

  Only the drizzle filled the space, pattering soft against the helm and shawl alike.

  The Magister let the quiet stretch, eyes sweeping the crowd. When no one stirred, his voice ran out again, smooth but harder at the edges.

  “Those with unique gifts will be honored above the rest. Earth Casters – your strength can shape walls and raise fortresses. AurenVale will pay handsomely for your talents. Step forward, and your names will be remembered.”

  No one moved. The drizzle hissed against the mud, against the banners sagging wet behind him. A child whimpered, quickly hushed by her mother.

  The Magister shifted in the saddle, his tone sharpening with false warmth. “Healers – your worth is beyond coin. Serve the Triarchy, and you will be rewarded as saviors of our people. Refuse, and your gifts will be wasted on hovels and fields while soldiers bleed for your safety.”

  His words cut, deliberate, measured. But the villagers only stood tighter, their silence pressed hard into the damp air.

  At last, he leaned forward, voice lowering, deliberate as the blade sliding free of its sheath.

  “If fear binds your tongues, then hear this: AurenVale rewards more than just those who step forward. Tell us of another who bears the gift. Point the way, and gold will be yours. Hide them, and the punishment will be theirs… and yours.”

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain, a suffocating weight that pressed against the chest. Eyes darted, not at the soldiers, but at each other. Measuring. Wondering.

  The silence broke with the shuffle of boots in mud.

  An old man stepped forward, his back stooped, hair gone thin and gray. His wife’s hand shot out to catch him, her voice cracking, “No, stay!” But he pulled free, trembling more from age than fear. The crowd parted around him as if the very air had grown brittle.

  The Magister straightened in his saddle, eyes narrowing. Not satisfaction, but something close. “Good,” he said, the word clipped. “What is your gift, old one?”

  The man lifted his chin, though his voice wavered. “Water. Always been water.”

  A flicker of disinterest touched the captains face. He gestured curtly. “Show me.”

  The old man raised his hands, rain beading on his palms. The drizzle bent to his will, gathering into a single trembling sphere. It swelled, growing to the size of a melon before it hovered, quivering, between his fingers. A thin rivulet slipped loose and spattered into the mud, but he held it long enough to prove the truth of it.

  The Magister gave a single nod, as if the man’s life had just been weighed and measured. “Brave,” he said. He flicked his fingers, and one of the soldiers stepped forward. A small purse of coin was pressed into the wife’s shaking hands.

  Her eyes brimmed, lips trembling around a protest she couldn’t voice. The Magister ignored her. His gauntleted hand settled firm on the old man’s shoulder, steering him toward the line of soldiers.

  The villagers looked on in silence, the only sound the drip of rain and the faint jingle of coins in a purse no one wanted.

  The soldier shoved the old man forward, and the crowd seemed to recoil as one. The girl clung to her mother’s skirts, sobbing openly now, her small shoulders shaking.

  The Magister’s lips twisted, the faintest ghost of a smile, but there was no kindness n it.

  “A Water Caster,” he said, as though tasting the words. “A good start.” He let that sink in before his tone turned harder, edged with iron. “But not enough. The Triarchy asks again: if there are other gifted among you, step forward. Do so, and you will be rewarded beyond any farmer’s wage.”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Only the rain answered, whispering down the thatch and dripping into the mud. Eyes shifted toward us every once in a while, giving questioning looks as to why we were there.

  The Magister’s patience thinned. He shifted in this saddle, gaze sweeping the huddled villagers until it caught on a boy half-hidden behind his mother, all elbows and knees, too young yet to shave but strong enough to wield a hoe. The Magister raised his hand and pointed at him, his gauntlet gleaming wet.

  “Then perhaps,” he said, voice cold with mockery, “we take the able-bodied in their stead.” His hand shifted again, landing squarely on Art, tall and broad-shouldered, standing proud despite the rain. “Or him. He looks fit enough to swing a sword.”

  I felt my breath catch. Art’s jaw flexed once, but he didn’t flinch. Without so much as glancing at me, he said in that rough, workman’s burr he slipped on like a second skin.

  “I’m a smith, Magister. That’s how I’ve served my country all my life by making the iron your soldiers carry. They let me keep my wife at my side because of it. We’re bound for Rodin. Her father’s taken ill. We’ve no business but family.”

  The Magister studied us, rain streaking down his breastplate. For a heartbeat I thought he might wave us through. Then his gloved hand tightened and gave a short, humorless laugh.

  “You’ll serve your country another way, then.”

  The Magister’s gaze lingered on Art a beat too long, then he turned in the saddle, lifting his voice over the rain.

  “Thames.”

  One of the mounted soldiers swung down, boots splashing into the muck. He moved with a heavy, deliberate tread, water sluicing from his cloak. From the pouch at his side he drew something dark, something that caught the thin gray light and drank it in.

  A stone. Black as pitch, jagged as broken glass, veins of red running through it like molten fire frozen mid-flow. Big enough to fill a man’s hand, yet the soldier carried it easily, raising it high for all to see. The red threads pulsed faintly in the dim, curling and shifting as though alive.

  A shiver ran over my skin. I didn’t know what it was, only that the air seemed to lean away from it. Even the drizzle slid off its surface, hissing as though burned.

  I turned to Art. He hadn’t moved, but the change in him was sharp as the blade drawn in the dark, shoulders taut, jaw set, every line of him coiled like a bowstring. His hand hovered a breath too close to the hilt at his side.

  The Magister’s voice carried again, smoother now, almost pleased with himself. “Bring the Ashpire Stone.”

  The villagers stirred uneasily. The word rippled through them, like it carried weight that only a few understood.

  I didn’t. Not fully. But I understood the way Art’s breath slowed, the way the muscles in his forearm flexed against the leather of his bracer. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t just a stone.

  And he knew it.