The gelding’s reins were warm in my hand as I led him through the street. A sturdy bay with a steady step. Not my mare, but enough to carry me south. The purse at my hip sagged lighter now, coins spent on his tack, and enough food to last me a few days. It was the cost of moving forward, and I had no choice but to pay it.
The village was quiet. No one stopped me, but I felt their eyes behind every shutter. By now, word of the Healing would have spread. That the Healer had taken payment before saving a life.
I pulled the reins tighter. Let them talk. I didn’t have the luxury of being good, only alive.
Boots scuffed behind me. I turned to find Trent coming down the lane, his shoulders bent beneath a weight that had nothing to do with work. He stopped before me, eyes lowered.
“I owe you an apology,” he said roughly. “For standing aside. You saved my boy, and I gave you nothing in return but silence.” He reached into his coat and pressed some coins into my hand. “This was meant for him. The fraud. He’d no right to it. So it’s yours. Take it.”
I hesitated, then closed my fingers around the leather. “Thank you. I only hope your son’s well enough to see each morning strong.”
His gaze lifted, raw with emotion. “He breathes easier already. We owe you more than coin.”
I gave him a nod, too tight for words, and swung into the saddle. The bay shifted under me, eager to move. Trent stepped back as I turned the horse south, the road stretching empty and long ahead.
The soldiers were still out there. And Art was with them.
I pressed my heels to the gelding’s flank, trailing after their march, the sound of his hooves drumming out my doubts one beat at a time.
The gelding jolted beneath me as I pressed him on, his stride uneven, his head tossing at the bit. He had spirit, too much of it for a horse that had known little more than a pen and a plow shed. My mare would have cut the distance smooth and steady, each league swallowed without protest. This one balked at shadows, pulled at the reins, and shifted under me as if the saddle itself were new to him.
“If you’re going to throw your head at every crow and puddle,” I muttered, giving the reins a firmer tug, “we’ll make a fine pair of fools together.”
He snorted as though answering, ears flicking back. I almost smiled. “My mare would have outpaced a storm,” I told him quietly. “But at least you’ve legs enough to keep me moving.”
The gelding gave another sharp toss of his head, as if offended at the comparison, then settled into a rougher but steadier trot.
I let the reins slacken a little, breath easing with the rhythm of his stride. What would Art say, seeing me on this beast after losing the mare? Probably shake his head, mutter that he should never leave me to keep watch over anything more valuable than a turnip. The thought drew a bitter laugh from my throat. He’d be right.
I patted the gelding’s neck. “Best we make up the distance quick,” I murmured. “Else I’ll never hear the end of it.”
The gelding settled into his rhythm, rough though it was, and I pressed him on. The main road curved wide, cutting through the valley in a broad line of mud and cart ruts, but I kept instead to a smaller track that wound south along the hills. Less traveled, harder to follow, but it felt closer to where the soldiers might have gone.
The trail climbed steadily, grass brushing high against my boots, the air damp with storm’s memory. The gelding huffed beneath me, muscles working hard as the path narrowed, but he pushed on with each nudge of my heels.
The light held high in the sky when I crossed the next village on the road. The faint clatter of hooves and a dog’s bark carried on the wind. Signs of life after a long stretch of silence.
I slowed the gelding, studying the lay of it. The road tightened as I drew closer. A trough stood half full near the well, the water murky with mud and ash. No one spoke, but I could feel eyes on me all the same.
I rode past an older woman who’s eyes followed without fear, but without welcome either.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
“Afternoon,” I called softly. “Has a group passed through here recently? Soldiers, maybe?”
She hesitated, then nodded toward the well. “Soldiers came through yesterday. Rode in before noon and stayed through the night. Took one of the baker’s boys. Would’ve taken more if Elder Gerran hadn’t stood in their way.”
My pulse quickened. “They were here?” I leaned forward in the saddle. “How long ago did they leave?”
“Before the rooster’s crow,” she said. “I rise early, and they were already gone. Must’ve continued south before the sun came up.”
“Then I am close,” I said, unable to keep the relief from my voice.
Her brow furrowed. “Close is not something to be glad of, girl. They left this place heavy.”
A man stacking kindling nearby snorted. “Aye. Heavy and loud. Kept the whole square awake with their sport. Made those new conscripts play at some game. Some sort of lesson, I take it.”
The woman’s glare silenced him. “Didn’t sound like a lesson to me. Sounded like cruelty.”
My heart was pounding now. “You said they left at dawn?”
The woman nodded. Her eyes softened, though her tone stayed wary. “If you’re wise, you’ll ride the other way.”
“I can’t,” I told her, already turning the gelding toward the southern road.
Mud splashed beneath the horse as I pushed him to a faster pace. The wind caught my cloak, cold and sharp.
By the time we reached the rise, the land fell away before us. I drew the reins and slowed him, taking in the view. Nestled in the low ground ahead lay a cluster of homes with roofs pitched steep, the shape of fields and fences pressing against the edges. A village, small but alive.
I shifted in the saddle and guided the gelding down the slope, his hooves clattering over stone as we made our way toward it.
I reined the gelding in as we reached the fields that flanked the village, slowing to take in the spread of tilled earth, damp and dark from the rains. Rows stretched wide, the air rich with soil. A donkey plodded along one furrow, a cart creaking behind it. Two men walked at its sides, hands lifted, weaving gusts of Wind to scatter pale dust across the rows.
I pulled the gelding short, my gaze locking on them now. Casters. Still here. Still free.
The knot in my chest pulled tight. If the soldiers hadn’t touched them, then maybe they hadn’t come through here after all. The gelding shifted beneath me, restless.
His hooves thudded over packed earth as we passed the fields. Even the houses that broke the horizon looked sturdier with stone foundations, fresh thatch, and shutters painted instead of left to rot.
It was strange to see a place so well-kept. My village had been smaller, poorer, its fences patched with whatever wood could be spared and its roofs left to sag until the neighbors banded together to fix them. We’d been told our land belonged to some high lord, though his name had never mattered.
The horse carried me past the first scatter of houses, each set back against its own field. Smoke curled from chimneys, the smell of cooking mingling with the damp earth. His hooves clopped past fields where men and women stooped low, pulling fat turnips from the soil and tossing them into wicker baskets. The sharp green tang of cut stalks clung to the air. Wagons creaked under the load, the workers’ voices carrying faintly on the breeze.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I guided the horse off the track, slowing near a group of men resting at the edge of a field. They looked up from where they sat with their baskets and water jugs, polite enough but wary of a stranger on horseback.
“Have any soldiers come through here?” I asked. My voice carried sharper than I’d meant.
The men exchanged glances before one finally shook his head. “No, miss. Not that we’ve seen.”
The answer was the one I feared the most, and my grip tightened on the reins. Another wrong trail. Another shadow.
“Are you searching for someone?” one of them asked carefully.
“My husband,” I said, the words clipped. “He was conscripted.”
The men shifted uneasily. Finally, the older of them gestured toward the heart of the village. “Best speak to the Castellan. If anyone knows of soldiers, he would.”
I nodded stiffly and pressed the gelding on, following the track as it wound past more fields and scattered cottages. The farther I rode, the closer the homes drew, fences closing in, smoke rising thicker from chimneys. Where the land had been wide and open, now the streets narrowed, pressing me toward the center.
Children darted between the houses, their laughter spilling into the lanes, while women carried baskets heavy with roots or jars of milk. A blacksmith’s hammer rang somewhere ahead, steady as a heartbeat, and over it all drifted the faint smell of baking bread.
The horse flicked his ears, restless in the press of sound and motion, but I kept him steady, eyes fixed forward. If the soldiers had come through, if anyone here had seen them, this Castellan would know.
And I meant to hear it from his own mouth.
The track narrowed into a proper street, the houses standing closer now, their gardens pressed tight against the lanes. I slowed the gelding as the bustle thickened, merchants calling their wares from open shutters, smoke curling from ovens that smelled of rye and honey. I bought some to get some food in me. People moved around me without question, some curious, others too busy with their own errands to care.
It wasn’t hard to find the Castellan’s house. Larger than the rest, with its roof pitched high and its beams carved finer than the cottages nearby, it stood near the square like a watchful eye over them all. A pair of men loitered at its door, spears resting across their shoulders, plain badges pinned at their cloaks. Not soldiers, more like keepers of the peace, but enough to mark this place as set apart.
I drew the horse closer, lifting a hand to catch one guard’s eyes. “I need to speak with the Castellan.”
The younger of the two straightened, his expression polite but firm. “He’s not in, mistress. Seen to matters of the green. You’ll find him when he’s done.”
I tightened my grip on the reins. “And when will that be?”
He shrugged, the gesture practiced, final. “When he’s done.”
The other guard shifted, watching me with the same unreadable calm. They weren’t cruel, not even dismissive, but it was clear enough they were to hold that line, and no knock on the door would bring the Castellan to me.
I swallowed my frustration and nudged the horse back, the reins stiff in my hands. Fine. If he wasn’t here, I’d find him elsewhere.
The street split toward the square ahead, and I guided the gelding forward again, scanning faces as I went. It was no Greyfen, there was space enough to breathe, the houses standing proud instead of leaning against each other like quarrelling drunks. Smoke rose in steady plumes, not the choking haze of too many fires pressed too close. People moved with an ease I hadn’t seen in other towns, pausing to trade words at doorsteps, not rushing shoulder-to-shoulder through a crush of noise.
I slowed the gelding, letting him pick his way past a cart stacked high with cabbages. Children clattered after it, their laughter sharp against the quiet rhythm of hammers and barking dogs. The air smelled of bread and cut wood, rich and steady. Here, even their fences stood straight, their carts better kept. Not lavish, not grand, but whole.
I asked after soldiers at a baker’s stall, but the woman only shook her head, flour clinging to her arms as she brushed them clean. At the inn, the keeper frowned thoughtfully, but he too muttered that the roads had been quiet. Each answer was the same: no soldiers, not here. The words scraped at me like grit under skin.
Then the crowd ahead shifted, and I caught sight of a man crouched over a glowing furnace. Tubes of molten glass shimmered in his hands, and when he lifted one, the air shimmered around his fingers. Fire bent at his will, steady and controlled, feeding the furnace’s heart and coaxing the molten mass into shape. He blew through a long pipe, and the glass swelled, glowing red, then orange, then cooling slowly as he turned it with practiced grace.
I reined the horse to a halt, watching. A Caster, here, shaping glass with Fire as if it were no more than another tool. Children crowded the edge of the stall, eyes wide at the gleam, while their parents only nodded, as though this were nothing strange.
A knot twisted hard in my chest. If he was here, and the men in the fields too, how many more? Why had the soldiers passed them by when they scoured the countryside elsewhere? Had they hidden themselves when the levy came?
The gelding shifted beneath me, impatient, and I pressed him on. I searched faces, asked questions at corners, but every answer blurred into the same refrain: no soldiers.
By the time I circled back toward the larger house near the square, the sun stood high and sharp, heat pressing on my cloak. The pair of guards who lingered at the door of the Castellan’s house kept their spears across their shoulders, gazes flicking toward me as I drew nearer.
Movement on the lane caught my eye. A man walked between two more guards, his pace relaxed, his voice low as he spoke to them. His cloak was plain but well-cut, his boots polished, his expression carved into lines of habit and authority. The Castellan.
I urged the gelding forward, catching him before he reached the steps. The four guards closed in at once, two flanking, two shifting from the doorway to stand firmer at his back. Their eyes weighed heavy on me, but I forced my words past the tightness in my throat.
“Sir,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’m searching for soldiers. Did they come through your village?”
The Castellan’s eyes flicked up to mine, sharp and assessing. “And who are you to ask?”
I drew a breath. “Anna,” I said quickly, the lie tasting thin. “My husband was conscripted. I only need to know if they came here.”
For a heartbeat, his gaze lingered on me, curious in a way that set the hairs rising at my nape. Then he gave a single, curt nod. “They came.”
Hope tightened in my chest. “Where did they go?”
That same curious look sharpened, but he only shook his head. “I’ve no time for questions. My duties don’t wait on every passerby.” He turned, already striding for his door.
The guards shifted at once, a wall of spears and shields between me and him. The door closed, the latched clicked, and I was left staring at the clean timber frame, the sun beating hot on my back.
The gelding sidestepped restlessly, but I held the reins tight. The answer had been too quick, too easy. He knew more. But for now, the man was beyond reach, and the guards had eyes like stone.
I pressed my horse on, circling the village in search of something. Hoofprints, wagon ruts, any sign of a company moving through. But the land here sprawled too wide. Trails laced every field, cutting between hedges, winding into the hills. By the time I dismounted and knelt to the dirt myself, the ground was a tangle of prints impossible to read.
I turned instead to the people. A woman drawing water, a boy carrying grain, men bent over tools in the shade. My questions fell soft at first, then sharper when their eyes slid away. Some only shook their heads. Others muttered that I should speak to the Castellan, as though the word itself was enough to seal their lips. A few simply turned their backs, feigning busyness. Fear, or loyalty. Maybe both. Either way, their silence closed tighter than a gate.
I turned down a quieter lane, letting the gelding walk slow beneath the weight of my thoughts. The cottages thinned, fields pressing close again, and the noise of the square faded behind me. Ahead, I caught sight of a figure striding along the road.
I spotted him again on the lane, striding toward a farmhouse with two guards at his side. The sun caught on his polished clasp, the cut of his coat marking him plain as any title could. I pressed the gelding forward, angling across the road before he could pass.
“My Lord.” My voice carried sharper than I meant.
He slowed, but only just. The guards tensed, their hands near their blades. I didn’t give them time.
“You said the soldiers came through,” I pressed. “Where did they go?”
His eyes narrowed, cool and measuring. “You again.”
“Yes, me,” I snapped before I could temper it. “You gave me half an answer and shut your door. That’s not enough. Not when they’ve taken my husband.”
Something flickered in his gaze, but he masked it quick. “If your husband was conscripted,” he said flatly, “then there’s nothing you can do. No words will bring him back.”
The words struck hard, but I forced mine past the tightness in my throat. “I have to try. Tell me where they went.”
“I’ve already told you what I care to. Now step aside. I’ve work waiting.”
The gelding sidestepped under me as I leaned forward in the saddle. “Work? What work matters more than lives stolen from this land? More than a wife trying to follow what’s hers?”
His mouth pressed thin. His guards moved closer, swords and spears angling just so, but still I didn’t yield.
“Please,” I said, voice raw, breaking past anger into something sharper. “If it were your family forced south, your wife, your children, would you send me away still?”
For the first time, he stopped. The silence stretched, his eyes unreadable but fixed on mine. The farmhouse waited just ahead, the guards bristling at either side. Then he drew a slow breath through his nose.
“My family,” he said evenly, “is here. Safe. That is my duty.” His gaze hardened, the crack sealed shut again. “Yours lies elsewhere. Find it without me.”
He motioned his guards, then they stepped between us, forcing me back with the gelding’s restless snort ringing in my ears. The Castellan walked on, not sparing another glance, until the lane swallowed him toward the farmhouse.
I sat frozen, the reins slack in my hands. First Caleb. Now Art. My brother, dragged north to bleed for a war I’d never see, and now the one man who’d fought to keep me alive torn from me just the same. This country was stripping me bare, one piece at a time, and no one cared enough to stop it.
The heat behind my eyes blurred the lane. I dug my heels into the gelding’s flanks, half a breath from turning away, from vanishing into another road.
“I can pay!” The words tore out of me, sharper than I intended, raw enough that heads turned from the nearby fields.
The Castellan paused mid-stride, shoulders stiff. He didn’t turn.
“I can pay!” I shouted again, the crack in my voice carrying across the lane. “Tell me where they went. Name your price and I’ll meet it.”
This time he turned, his eyes narrowing, something keen and calculating behind them. For a long moment, he only studied me. My posture in the saddle, the frayed edge of my cloak, the purse at my hip. The guards shifted uneasily, waiting for his word.
At last the Castellan lifted a hand, halting them. His gaze fixed on me with a weight that felt colder than steel.
“Then speak of coin,” he said. “And we’ll see what your husband’s worth.”
Author Announcement:
Book Two. Before I reach that point, I want to run something by you and get your feedback as I consider you all invaluable.
full rerelease of Book One on Royal Road.
-
You would NOT lose weekly chapters.
If you all support a rerelease, I’ll post faster and finish posting the rest of Book 2. These chapters will be a bit rougher than my normal weekly ones because I won’t have time for my usual extra editing passes, but they will be fully polished before the rerelease.
-
Rereleasing does not delete the story page, the cover, or the follow button. Everyone stays!
-
It gives the story a brand-new chance on Rising Stars.
-
You get a better reading experience.
There will be a poll at the end. Your feedback genuinely matters.
Would you support a rerelease of Book One here on RR if it means you get more frequent updates now, cleaner chapters later, and a stronger long-term reading experience?