Celeste

  The purse pressed into my palms with the weight that felt less like gold and more like loss.

  The Magister’s men were already pulling Art farther down the road, their armor clattering in rhythm with the horses’ hooves. He walked among them, reins in hand, his own mount trailing behind, close but no longer his to claim. His back was straight, his stride even, as if he had chosen this path himself. As if he hadn’t left me with nothing but a whispered command and the weight of gold I didn’t want.

  Rodin.

  That’s where he told me to go. To keep walking, to keep my name hidden, to bury myself in the noise of the city until he came… if he came.

  But every step the soldiers took with him stretched the distance like a rope tightening around my throat. My stomach twisted, my fingers digging into the purse until the edges bit through the leather.

  I could follow. If I hurried, if I caught the tail of their line, maybe I could slip among the carts or keep to the hedges, close enough to watch, close enough to… what? Save him? What chance did one girl with Light Casting have against a wall of soldiers? Soldiers who might wield their own element at that? If that had been the way forward, Art would have taken it himself.

  I closed my eyes. The memory of the Stone still burned in my mind: the boy crumpling into the mud, the farmer convulsing, the way Viola’s flame had barely lit before they snuffed her out and claimed her. That was the future waiting for anyone who defied the Triarchy. If they saw me as more than a smith’s wife, if they even guessed what I was, then what?

  Art told me to go. To be careful. To keep the name he gave me. He had trusted me enough to let himself be taken.

  But what if obedience was just another kind of cowardice?

  I told myself once that I’d do it alone. That I’d find a way back to Faylen, if it meant breaking against the walls that held her. I believed that before Art. Before he stepped in and made my fight his own.

  And now he’s gone with them because of me.

  If I hadn’t needed him, if I hadn’t let him stay, the Magister’s eye might never have found him. He wouldn’t be walking away in chains of service now. He was caught in their net because he chose to walk beside me, because I couldn’t bear the thought of facing it all on my own.

  The rain thickened, soaking through my cloak, plastering hair to my cheeks. Villagers trickled back into their homes, doors shutting against the weight of silence, and I was left standing alone in the square with mud clinging to my boots and doubt clinging to everything else.

  A voice cut through the rain.

  “You there – girl.”

  I turned, half-expecting more trouble, but it was only a woman standing under the eaves of a cottage, a kerchief knotted beneath her chin and darkened by the rain. Her eyes held something softer than the rest of the village, something that hadn’t yet been drained out by fear.

  “You shouldn’t be out in this,” she called. “Come inside.”

  My fingers tightened on the purse. “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. The words felt like stones in my mouth. “I must go.”

  The woman stepped closer, the mud sucking at her skirts. “At least until the rain stops.” Her voice wasn’t unkind, but it left no room for argument. “You’ll catch your death standing here.”

  I opened my mouth to refuse again, to tell her that I wasn’t hers to look after, that I had a road to Rodin and nothing else, but the weight of my palms, the ache in my chest, and the rain pressing down left me with no strength to argue.

  So I nodded once and let her lead me toward the low doorway, where firelight flickered faintly inside.

  The woman stepped down form the neighbor’s eaves and beckoned me to follow. Her skirts dragged through the muck, her headscarf sagging under the rain. Lines marked her face, but not the deep creases of age. A woman no longer in her first youth, the traces of years written in work and worry.

  Her home was farther down, tucked at the bend of the lane, but the square hadn’t yet emptied. As we passed, I caught sight of the farmer who had collapsed under the Stone. His wife was kneeling in the mud beside him, her face buried against his chest, sobbing loud enough to cut through the rain. His body hadn’t stirred.

  A few men crouched close, speaking in low voices, while others readied themselves to lift him. One pressed fingers against the side of his throat, another shook his head. Their words carried just enough for me to catch. Too old… may not last the night.

  My stomach tightened, but I forced myself to look away.

  “What about the boy?” I asked, my voice thin in the rain. “The one they pulled first.”

  The woman glanced at me, her mouth a grim line. Then she softened, if only a fraction. “He woke. His mother was crying so hard I thought her heart would burst, but she carried him home. Joyful tears, that time.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It didn’t undo the image of him convulsing in the mud, but it loosened something in my chest all the same.

  The woman gave me a look, but said nothing more as she led me down the crooked lane where her cottage waited, a faint curl of smoke rising from its chimney through the rain.

  The cottage was small, but warmer than the gray world outside. Smoke curled faintly from the hearth, where a pot already hung above the embers. The woman ushered me in, shutting the door against the rain, and for the first time since the square, I felt the sound of the storm soften to something distant.

  She busied herself with the fire, coaxing it to life, then set about warming water in a dented kettle. “You’ll have tea,” she said, not quite asking. Her voice was plain, steady, the sort of tone that expected agreement.

  “Yes,” I managed, my throat dry. “Thank you.”

  She nodded, poured the steaming water over leaves, and let the scent unfurl in the air, sharp and bitter, but clean. Carrying the cups to the table, she set one in front of me before settling opposite.

  “My name is Ava,” she said after a moment, her hands wrapped around her cup. “I’m sorry for your loss. A husband taken like that…” Her voice thinned, but she shook her head, leaving the rest unsaid.

  The words caught in my chest. Husband. The title sat heavy between us. I forced my lips to shape the name I’d been given, though it stumbled out uneven.

  “Anna,” I said. My fingers tightened around the cup, grateful for the heat. “My name is Anna.”

  The lie tasted bitter, almost as sharp as the tea.

  The cottage smelled of damp wood and smoke, the warmth seeping slow from the hearth. Ava set the cups down. I cradled mine with both hands, letting the heat bite into my fingers.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She didn’t waste time on silence. “How long were you and your husband married?” she asked, tilting her head as though it were a harmless question.

  I blinked into the steam, buying time with a sip that burned my tongue. “Not long,” I said carefully, thought the word felt fragile in my mouth.

  Ava’s eyes softened, but they didn’t turn away. “I heard what he told the Magister. About your father. I’m sorry, Anna. To have to come all this way to console your father and now this, losing your husband. It’s too much for anyone.”

  The tea soured on my tongue. I nodded, but the lie pressed harder in my chest with every word she gave back. Husband. Father. A life that wasn’t mine stitched together by Art’s quick tongue and now bound tighter by her sympathy.

  She reached across the table, her hand warm against my knuckles. “You’ve been given more grief than any woman should bear. You’ll stay as long as you need. Let the rain pass and your strength settle.”

  I swallowed against the heat rising in my throat. “Thank you,” I whispered, though the words felt crooked.

  Inside, the thought curled sharp, I shouldn’t have taken the name, shouldn’t have stepped into the lie. Already it was a snare. Already it was binding tighter than I meant.

  I felt her eyes lingering, ready to ask more, and the lie already strained thin in my throat. Before she could press further, I lifted my head and asked, “Do you live here alone?”

  Ava blinked, then let out a soft laugh as though she knew exactly what I was doing, but answered anyway. “No. This is my father’s house. He’s gone to Redwick for a time, visiting my aunt. I stayed behind to mind the house and keep the livestock alive.” She shook her head, a wisp of hair slipping loose from beneath her kerchief. “It isn’t much, but it keeps us fed.”

  Her gaze softened, turning inward. “My mother passed when I was still young, so it’s been just the two of us. Father and I make do.”

  She sipped her tea, then gave a crooked smile that carried more weariness than mirth. “Though if I don’t find a man soon, I’ll end up an old spinster. But all the good ones are either married already or dragged off to fight in this blasted war.”

  I forced a small smile, though it sat awkwardly on my lips. Better her voice filling the air than her questions scraping at the seams of my lies.

  I cleared my throat, trying to keep her words from circling back to me. “Do you keep many animals here?”

  Ava smiled. “Hens, a few sheep, two goats. And a cat that comes and goes as he pleases. Stubborn creature, but Father says a barn without a cat isn’t worth keeping.”

  I nodded, grateful for the ordinary sound of it. “Are there many families left in the village? How did you avoid conscription until now?”

  She leaned back a little, her cup cradled between her palms. “Most families here have been rooted for generations. A few children left, chasing work in larger cities like Rodin or farther still in the capital, Vitel. But most stay. We’re a tightknit place, quiet, not worth much notice.” Her gaze darkened. “The lord of Rodin’s seen to that, I think. He’s kept a long arm over these parts. Paid his quotas another way. And truth be told, we’re too small to matter much. A few farmers and shepherds don’t fill an army. Better to leave us where we are, tending our fields and sending wool and grain into the city.”

  Her voice lowered, as if even the walls might overhear. “But if they’ve come here now… it means even the small places aren’t safe. Desperate men count every body, no matter how few. I’ve never heard of them using a stone like that before. My father served when he was young, and he’d have told me if such a thing was part of taking young men and women. No… That was something new.”

  She gave a small shake of her head, as though to scatter the thought. “Whatever it means, it isn’t good.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “The two who left… were there ever any more casters here?”

  Ava’s brow lifted, and for a moment I thought she’d seen too much in the question. Then her expression softened, her voice lowering as if she were offering comfort. “You mean whether your husband spared another? He did.” She set her cup down, fingers brushing the rim. “What he did stood for something. The Magister saw it. Respected it, in his way. They left one behind, a child. Only eight years old. A young Earth Caster who just found his abilities.”

  My throat tightened, but Ava pressed on. “It isn’t common, you know, to have so many in a place like this. First old farmer Aren, then young Braden, and now Viola.” She shook her head. “When I was a girl, Aren was the only caster in the whole village. And now, within just a few years, there are two children showing gifts.”

  She looked toward the shuttered window, rain hissing against the wood. Then it dropped to her cup. “I feel for Bridget, though. Poor woman lost her son when he chose to leave. She must worry every day that he’s been conscripted by now. But… he never showed signs of a gift, so maybe he’s safe.”

  The light outside had dimmed to a bruised blue. The rain had stopped, but the air that seeped through the shutters was colder, heavy with the smell of wet earth. I hadn’t realized how long we’d been talking until the fire had burned down to embers and the shadows in the corners of the room stretched long and dark.

  Ava pushed back her chair and stood, brushing her hands on her skirts. “It’s late now. You should stay the night here.” She nodded toward the small hallways. “Take my room. I’ll sleep in my father’s.”

  “I couldn’t–” The words tumbled out, but she cut me off with a look that left little room to protest.

  “You’ll take it,” she said, though her voice was gentle. “The road to Rodin is no place to start after sundown, not with all that’s stirring these days.”

  I hesitated, but the truth was, my body ached and my thoughts were knotted enough without another stretch of lonely road. I gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

  Ava smiled faintly, her eyes shining in the firelight. “You’re a strong woman. I can tell. Stronger than you realize, maybe. I’m sorry for what’s been taken from you.” She didn’t linger on it, didn’t press, only let the words settle between us like a blanket.

  Her home wasn’t grand, but it was well kept. Sturdy beams, a hearth that hadn’t been blackened by raiders’ hands, shutters still whole. Better than Calla’s house had been, though maybe that was only because it had been spared what others had not.

  I followed her down the narrow hall, the purse still heavy on my waist, and for the first time since the square, allowed myself to hope I might close my eyes without hearing the Magister’s voice in my head.

  The room Ava gave me was small but neat, the quilt smoothed flat across the bed, a wooden chest tucked beneath the window. I set the purse on the stool by the door and lowered myself onto the mattress, though the weight of it all pressed heavier than any blanket.

  I lay back, staring at the beams overhead. My thoughts slid, unbidden, to Art. Where had they put him now? A cot, if he was lucky. More likely the mud, with nothing but his cloak for cover. The memory of his straight back, his even stride, stung sharper now that I pictured him shackled to their march.

  And Faylen. Every day stretched longer between us. Every turn, every delay pulled me farther from her cell. I had sworn I would go back, that I would not leave her behind. Yet here I was, under another roof, chasing another road.

  I closed my eyes, pulling the quilt up to my chin. Tomorrow I would choose again. Rodin lay ahead, and I had to believe it would bring me closer to both of them, not farther.

  Sleep found me slowly, in fits and starts, until the gray light of dawn pressed against the shutters.

  By morning, the smell of porridge and fresh bread drifted down the hall. Ava had laid the table, and the fire stoked bright again. She pressed a bowl into my hands before I could protest, and we ate in companionable quiet. When the meal was done, I gathered my cloak and reins, ready at last to take the road north.

  I shouldered my pack and Ava followed me to the door, her hands folded tight in front of her.

  “Thank you,” I said, meaning more than just the food and the roof. “For everything.”

  Her kind eyes softened once more, the lines around them deepening. “Safe travels, Anna. May the road be kinder to you than it’s been so far.” She touched my arm lightly, her voice low. “You’re stronger than you think. Don’t forget that.”

  The words caught in my chest, and for a moment I didn’t trust myself to speak. I only nodded, then stepped out into the cool morning air.

  My horse waited in the lane, breath puffing in white curls. I swung into the saddle and gave Ava one last look, raising a hand in farewell before turning back toward the narrow road that wound out of the village.

  The climb was quiet but for the creak of leather and the muffled thud of hooves on soft earth. At the ridge, the road split: south, where Art had been taken under the Magister’s banner; north, the road to Rodin, the one he told me to follow.

  I reined in and sat still, the morning air cold against my face. My chest tightened as I stared at the northern track. Rodin. Our goal from the beginning. The place he told me to keep to, and the one he trusted me with. Somewhere near its walls, Faylen was waiting, counting on me. Every delay had already stretched thin. How many more before her hope broke entirely?

  But the road south burned in my chest. Each league I left him behind would only deepen the cut. He had saved me more times than I could count – pulled me from death’s grip, stood for my village, taught me when I thought I was beyond saving, walked this road beside me not for himself, but for Faylen. For me.

  And now he was gone under their banner because of it. Because of me.

  My fingers tightened around the reins. I could almost hear his voice in the hush of the morning: Go to Rodin. Don’t look back.

  The choice pressed hard as iron, north or south, duty or loyalty, trust or defiance. My breath caught, and I felt the weight of it break against my ribs.

  I looked north once more, to Rodin. Then back, south, to the road he had taken.

  And when I turned my horse forward, it was not toward the city.

  It was toward him.

  Toward Art.