Artemis

  The rain followed us out of the hamlet, a steady hiss over steel and mud. The soldiers rode tall in their saddles, banners dragging wet behind them, but I walked in the muck, reins tight in my hand. My horse snorted once, ears flicking back toward me, confused why I wasn’t in the saddle. I kept my eyes forward and my jaw tight.

  We marched through the night. No stop for fire, no pause for bread. The Magister didn’t believe in rest when fear could drive a man farther. Each time one of the villagers stumbled, a boot or spear butt drove them upright again. I’d seen campaigns run lean before, but this was something different. This was a leash, pulled until the neck choked.

  Near the Hollow Hour, when the moon was at its highest, one of the younger soldiers drew alongside me. He gave my horse an appraising look, then spat into the mud.

  “No need for a mount when your hands are chained to ours,” he sneered. “The beast’s wasted on you.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer before jerking his chin at another rider. Within moments, the reins were wrenched from my grip, and the gelding was led ahead into their column. My hands twitched at my sides, but I didn’t reach. The horse kicked once in protest before settling into their line.

  The Magister didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. The order was his whether his lips moved or not.

  So I walked. Boots sinking deeper with each step, mud tugging like it wanted to keep me. The horse was gone. The woman I’d told to continue to Rodin was gone. And I was left with nothing but rain and the iron weight of the Triarchy pressing its leash down tighter.

  The hours bled together, the moon swallowed the cloud until even the stars gave up their watch. My world was only the squelch of boots and the rasp of chain, with the hiss of rain filling every hollow. My shoulders ached from the drag of the pace, but I didn’t slow. Better to burn strength on my own terms than feel a spear in my back.

  The night bled into gray morning, our march dragging through mud and mist until the track widened between two low hills. Grass rose high on either side, bowed heavy with rain. At the base of the dip, a rope hung taut across the road, rusted iron links sagging from it. A gate of sorts, if a rope and a bit of bluster could make one.

  The Magister didn’t slow. His plume dripped steady down his helm, his mount’s hooves thudding soft against the wet earth. His voice carried flat, without a glance.

  “Remove that scrap of iron.”

  The man’s lip curled, stepping half a pace into the mud. “Levy of Lord Car–”

  He never finished.

  The man dropped as if struck by a hammer, blood running dark at his temple. No steel swung, no arrow loosed. The Magister hadn’t moved, not that any but me would notice. But I knew the shape of it. I’d hidden casts the same way – quick, clean, invisible unless you knew where to look. That kind of control was rare. And dangerous.

  The others froze, their laughter swallowed whole. The tether sagged between the posts, rattling faint under the weight of the chains.

  Then, they scrambled, stumbling over their own boots to pull the rope down. Chains clattered as they dragged it aside, heads bent, hands shaking. None dared look at the Magister. One muttered a curse under his breath, another hauled his fallen companion by the shoulders, but all moved quick to clear the way.

  The Magister never spared them a second glance. His plume dripped steady in the rain as his horse stepped past, the rest of us falling in behind, bound by the pull he carried as surely as if it were a chain.

  The rain blurred the road into muck, each step sucking slow at the boots of those forced along it. Three of us had been taken from the hamlet that night. The young girl Viola, Jarl, bent-backed and gray from years behind the plow, and me. The other three had already worn this path before we joined them: a boy about the same age as Viola, eyes hollow but sharp, and two men in their twenties, shoulders still strong, though the march had started eating away at that strength.

  None of us wore chains. The Magister’s leash was subtler. Nearly every soldier in this platoon was a caster. With casters on every side, there was no point in chains. Their power weighed heavier than steel.

  And yet the greatest danger rode at the center – the Magister himself. He needed no shackles when his strength alone held us fast.

  Viola began to lag, the mud dragging her smaller steps into nothing. The boy glanced at her once but didn’t break stride, he’d learned better already. One of the riders shifted in his saddle, hand brushing the haft of his spear.

  I slowed before the lash could fall, letting the column edge ahead while I matched her pace. “Stay close,” I said, quiet enough the soldiers wouldn’t care. “Short steps. Don’t fight the ground. Just move through it.”

  She blinked up at me, rain shining on her lashes, then nodded. Her shoulders squared in a way I’d seen on soldiers older than her. The boy drifted closer, silent but not unkind, and one of the other conscripted men slackened his pace just enough that Viola could catch the rhythm between us.

  Behind her, Jarl’s eyes lingered too long. He ducked his head when I caught the look, guilt written plain in the lines of his face. Then he eased closer, sheepish, as if remembering too late that he’d known her all her life and should have been the one to steady her before a stranger did.

  The road bent past a scatter of huts, little more than timber walls bowed by the weather. Smoke clung weakly to one chimney before the rain smothered it flat. I’d passed this way before, this settlement was fairly newer. They would have heard us in the night.

  No doors opened as we went by. No voices called out. Only the rain, and the hush that always followed the Magister’s column.

  The same thought pressed at me as it had since we left the hamlet: cut north and make for Rodin. Celeste would be waiting, if she believed me. But the thought curdled the same as before, bitter with the mistake of ever naming that city aloud. If I slipped free so close, they’d know where to look.

  And it wasn’t just distance. Too many casters in this column, my horse swallowed into their ranks, and the Magister the greatest threat of all. To break away would demand timing, distance, and one instant when he wasn’t watching.

  The rain thinned, its hiss giving way to the drip of branches and the churn of mud beneath our boots. By the time the clouds broke, gray light was pooling low across the road, and the order finally came to a halt. The soldiers peeled off to either side, loosening girths and shaking water from cloaks, while we were herded to the ditch like cattle. No fire, but stale bread passed around, and wet ground to sleep on.

  I sank onto the slope, back braced against the bank, every muscle thrumming with the ache of the march. Viola folded into herself beside the boy, knees drawn up beneath her chin. Jarl lowered down stiffly, joints creaking like the timbers of a barn too long in the rain. His eyes flicked once toward her before he buried his face in his hands.

  I let mine close, though not all the way. Rest had to come, but never too deep. Not with the Magister a dozen paces off, and his leash wound tight around every one of us.

  ***

  Dawn dragged itself over the hills, pale and thin as watered milk. The rain had gone, leaving the ground heavy and slick, our cloaks caked in mud where we’d tried to sleep. A boot struck the ditch wall near my head, hard enough to rattle dirt into my hair.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Up.”

  The order rippled down the line, soldiers driving us onto our feet. Viola rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, swaying until Jarl steadied her by the shoulder. The boy was quicker, already on his feet before the spear haft jabbed his ribs. I pushed up slow, rubbing the knotted muscle at my shoulder with the tip of my thumb. A breath, a measured press with quick Healing, and the tightness slackened. What might have looked like rubbing sore muscles was doing much more, but with practiced hands I made sure none was the wiser.

  There was no talk of bread, no time to shake out the cold. The Magister had them form us in rows across the road, soldiers flanking either side, his own mount waiting at the head. What followed wasn’t training. Too quick for tired legs.

  The drills dragged on until the sun pushed higher, its weak light washing the mist into steam. Step, turn, march. Again. Faster. The column of conscripts faltered, bodies not made for soldier’s pace, and that was when the riders came alive.

  A gust of Wind sheared across the road and slammed a man flat on his back, dirt sluicing from his clothes as he clawed for purchase. He rolled, coughing, and a soldier’s sneer pushed him to his feet with another well-timed shove of air.

  When a foot caught in mud, a soldier sent a stone under the heel to snag and topple the man forward. He hit the ground hard enough to see stars, and the soldier laughed like it was a joke. Once, a careless spark licked at a sleeve; the heat scorched the fabric and drove the wearer back with a curse. No one burned too badly. That wasn’t the point. The point was to make every breath feel conditional.

  This was not training. I’d known proper drills that taught muscle and cohesion. This was conditioning. Forcing obedience into the bones. The casts were measured to hurt enough to be remembered, not enough to end anything. We were taught quickly to keep our heads down.

  Viola’s steps shortened until Jarl’s hand found the small of her back and gave the gentlest push forward. A soldier attempted to mask his cast to where the ground at her boot rose a fist’s height, as if some hidden root had forced itself up, and her toe caught. Mud spat up as she pitched forward. Jarl’s face closed, and he lurched after her to help her back up.

  The Magister lifted a hand, and the soldiers fell into it as if pulled by a cord. “Search them,” he said, flat. His words had the practicality of a command and the cruelty of ceremony. The soldiers moved with the efficiency of men who’d done this before, and had us form a line.

  They came up one by one. A hand flicked through a pouch, fingers practiced and blunt. A soldier turned pockets inside out like he was checking for lice. Another weighed a coin between thumb and forefinger, his grin widening at the sound. They found my purse and a handful of coins, rattling in the leathern fold. One of them tugged it free, palm quick and sure. “Good,” he said, and split the coins between two men like payment for a joke.

  I let him. I had already palmed two heavier pieces of small gold coins and slid them into a narrow slit I’d cut and stitched inside the welt of my boot. My hands stayed open and useless as they counted the purse. They walked away with the clink and the laugh, ignorant of what I carried beneath my sole. Still, what they took was no paltry amount.

  They rifled through the others: a silver button off an overcoat, a scrap of cloth with a child’s name sewn into it, a small carved whistle. The boy’s eyes went dark when a coin disappeared from his fist. He clenched his jaw and stepped away. Jarl watched it all with his hands loose at his sides, his face a map of weather and shame. Viola kept her head down, as if the shame might not find her if she looked elsewhere.

  The Magister didn’t stoop to pluck at pockets. That was beneath him. He gave the order and let his men harvest the spoils. I was certain it pleased him to watch the taking, the way property could be made and unmade under his command. No one bothered to hide the theft. The men split the spoils of what they had stolen.

  When a hand reached for my wrist, I felt the motion in my bones before my eyes followed. The soldier’s fingers curled toward the wolf bracelet – the thin loop Celeste had bought me. For a beat the world narrowed to that small, familiar weight. The soldier’s grin was a provocation as much as a question of who’s to stop him.

  “Pretty thing,” the soldier said, fingers still toying with the loop as if it were a coin. He let it dangle, as if testing its weight. “Would look better on me.”

  I let the word sit between us. “Try it,” I said, low and even, “and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

  The effect was immediate. The soldier’s grin faltered, his fingers stalling over the pendant. The men closest turned, their laughter thinning into silence. The soldier with his hand on the wolf pendant went rigid, his eyes narrowed as the moment sharpened around us. Boots scuffed against the churned mud as a few others stilled in place, attention caught like a tether pulled tight.

  Only the Magister remained unchanged. High on his horse, he glanced in our direction, eyes steady with interest but otherwise still. He made no move to interfere. His silence from the saddle was permission as much as command.

  He looked up at the Magister as if to read the order there, and the Magister’s silence answered for him. The Magister’s calm was the command: fight your own battles. The soldier’s grin returned for a breath, thin and practiced, then he let the pendant slip from his fingers as if bored, the loop swinging free on my wrist.

  The motion was a lie. In the same instant, his shoulder rolled, and his fist came forward hard, making its way toward my face.

  I moved. Not with a flourish, but with a small step to the side to waste little motion. My hand palmed his wrist, guided the arc of the punch aside, and sent the arm rattling out sideways so his fist hit nothing but air. The surprise knocked him a half-step off balance. His feet found nothing solid and he stumbled, his breath sharp in his throat.

  The soldier’s stumble hadn’t shamed him enough. His eyes burned when he righted himself, lips curled to hide the crack in his pride. He glanced again at the Magister. Still no order. Only that small tilt of mouth, a smirk cut like a blade, as if he was weighing the outcome of this fight.

  The soldier’s jaw clenched. He came in again, but this time his swing wasn’t empty. Flame gathered quick, a smear of heat licking across his palm as he swung for my head.

  I shifted aside, boots gritting in the churned mud, my arm catching his wrist and pushing it off-line. The fire split wide, a hot smear that lit the damp air but struck nothing. He snarled, spun, and swung again.

  I met flame with flame. A flare from my own hand, low and sharp, just enough to smother the heat before it touched me. His fire broke against mine like sparks drowned in water, the sting of it running up my arm but leaving no mark.

  His fury deepened. Each strike came faster, fire escaping his palms, but I moved with them – sidesteps, short turns, a hand raised in deflection. When the heat pressed too close, I answered in kind, small bursts of fire cutting his away before it landed.

  The others stopped everything they were doing in order to watch. A large circle formed, boots dragging through mud, faces tight with interest. Some leaned forward, eager for blood. Others hung back, measuring me with the same wary eyes they gave their Magister.

  And him, he still watched from the saddle, reins slack in his hand, plume high on his head, dry from the rain, with a small smile that settled on his face as if the whole affair was nothing more than a diversion to pass the morning.

  The soldier’s swings grew wilder, each cast hotter than the last. His control slipped with every breath until his fire was little more than a snarl flung from his hands. I stayed with him, never more than a half-step aside, letting his fury burn itself against air and mud. When I answered, it was measured, just enough heat to turn his flame back, never more than I had to give.

  His teeth bared as he lunged, reckless, both hands flaring bright. It was time to end this farce. I let one pass close, the heat curling my cheek, then stepped in under the second. My forearm slammed his aside, my other hand catching his collar. I twisted my weight around while I turned my hip, and his balance broke. He struck the ground on his back with a wet thud, fire snuffed out in the mud.

  For a heartbeat the circle held its breath. Then boots shifted. A pair of soldiers surged forward, anger written plain on their faces, ready to drag me down beside their comrade.

  “That’s enough.”

  The Magister’s voice cut through the moment like iron dropped on stone. The men froze mid-step. Still high on his horse, he hadn’t raised his tone. He didn’t need to. His smile lingered, faint and sharp, as though the fight had confirmed something he already suspected.

  The soldier groaned where he lay, mud streaked up his cheek, pride more scorched than flesh. I let my hands hang loose at my sides, eyes steady on the Magister, waiting to see his reaction.

  The Magister’s word was law enough. The soldiers eased back, mutters slipping between them, but none stepped closer. The circle broke apart, boots dragging through mud as they went about the familiar motions of tightening straps and slinging packs.

  I bent to help Viola gather the few things she had left. Jarl’s eyes were fixed on the ground while the boy stepped over to help as well. I pressed her things that the soldiers tossed to the ground into Viola’s arms, her fingers clutching them quick as though afraid even I might take it.

  My regret was heavier than the mud on my boots. I didn’t believe I’d given much away. Still, it was reckless. I hadn’t come this far by trading blows over pendants. That was sentiment talking, not survival. And being sentimental has cost me before.

  I shifted my pack onto my shoulder, tightening the strap. The wolf pendant still hung at my wrist, spattered with mud, but whole.

  The sound of hooves drew close through the muck. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The Magister’s mount paced easy, steps as sure as the man himself. He reined in beside me, the plume on his helm nodding faintly as he looked down.

  “If every smith fought like you,” he said, tone edged witht faint amusement, “I’d have no need for soldiers.”

  I cursed myself for the slip, the weight of the pendant colder now against my skin. Pride again, dragging me closer to a line I couldn’t afford.

  “You mistake patience for training,” I said at last.

  The Magister’s smile deepened, faint as a knife’s edge. “Patience like that isn’t forged at an anvil.”