Celeste

  The day stretched long before trees began to thin. My legs were lead, my thoughts heavier still, when the road bent toward a scatter of thatched roofs crouched low against the hills. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint bleating of goats carried on the breeze.

  Darius lifted his hand, slowing the line. “Off the main road,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “But it’s near enough to Orvain’s way. Best we check it. News rides faster from villages than from cities.”

  The others fell in without question, and soon we were angling down the rutted path toward the cluster of homes. Mud sucked faintly at the horses’ hooves, the smell of damp earth and cooking fires rising to meet us.

  At first, the sight of villagers in the lane sent a jolt of hope through me. Dozens gathered near the square, voices carrying loud and urgent, the kind of noise that swelled when something worth speaking of had happened. My heart thudded once, sharp and foolish, before I could stop it.

  I pressed my hand against the gelding’s neck, steadying him as much as myself, and rode on with the Brotherhood into the commotion.

  The path narrowed between low fences and strips of fallow field before spilling us into the village square. What I’d taken for excitement resolved instead into anger. Farmers, women clutching shawls, even a few children crowded the large square, their voices sharp with complaint. At the center stood four men, two soldiers and two men in blue-and-silver livery, a chest at their feet already heavy with coin.

  “Levy’s gone up again!” a man shouted, his fists balled white. “We’ve not coin enough to last till winter.”

  “By the order of the High Lord of Orvain,” one of the soldiers barked, unrolling the parchment so the seal caught the morning light. “His dominion, his law. Pay the tithe or stand conscripted in its place. The High Lord takes one or the other.”

  The crowd roared in protest, but no one stepped forward. No one dared.

  My breath caught. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d found him. I thought the soldiers were the Magister’s men, conscripting more poor souls, and that Art might be among them. My heart clawed against my ribs, desperate, certain I’d finally closed the distance.

  But no prisoners stood with heads bowed. Only parchment and seal, the High Lord’s decree read aloud while villagers pressed forward with trembling hands and coins scraped from empty purses while one man scrawled names across a long sheet of parchment.

  Darius reined his horse to a halt, watching from the edge of the square. His face was unreadable, carved from the same stone as his silence. The Brotherhood didn’t move, didn’t reach for their blades, didn’t so much as lean forward in their saddles. Their presence was steady, but distant, as though a line had been drawn they would not cross.

  Elena’s mare edged close enough that her knee brushed mine. She gave me a smile, small but steady, and dipped her chin once as if to say you’ll find him. The warmth in it tugged against the hollow place inside me, enough that I forced myself to nod back.

  Darius’ voice carried low but firm. “We’ll take what supplies we need and ride on. This isn’t our fight.” He didn’t look at me, didn’t look at the villagers either, only at the soldiers and their parchment as though reminding us all where the line was drawn.

  The words stilled any thought of protest on my tongue. Around us the villagers shifted, their anger sharp as flint against stone, but none of it directed at the Rangers.

  Then, cutting through the din, a ragged voice rose from the crowd. “Lioren, you thieving bastard!”

  Every head turned as an older man shoved through the villagers, gray in his beard and mud streaking his boots. He pointed a crooked finger up at the Ranger, spitting curses that half-sounded like greetings.

  Lioren only leaned forward in his saddle, a grin spreading slow. “Saints alive, Brenn. Thought the wolves would’ve eaten ya and shit you out by now.”

  The man barked a laugh, though he still waved his fist. “Not for lack of trying, you flea-ridden sot. Looks like you’ve only gotten uglier.”

  The Brotherhood chuckled, the sharp edge of the square easing just a fraction. Even Darius’ mouth twitched, though his eyes never left the soldiers.

  They traded a few more barbs before Lioren leaned back in his saddle, still smirking. He tossed the words over his shoulder at the group. “Seems the bastard’s survived well enough. I’ll stay the night, catch up with him. You lot can collect me on your way back from that village you’re headin’ to.”

  No one argued. Darius only gave a short nod, as if it was nothing unusual. The Brotherhood didn’t so much as blink. Just a Ranger choosing his own road for a while. I realized then how loose their tether ran. Freer than soldiers, bound more by trust than command.

  It struck me then that Art had once been that free. He walked where he wished, fought when he chose, bent to no one. Until me. Until he took the road beside mine, and the military closed their fists around him instead. If not for me, he might still be walking as the Brotherhood did now – untethered and unclaimed. The guilt clawed sharp at me.

  The Brotherhood scattered, peeling away in twos and threes. Fira steered her mare toward the smith’s lean-to, Iven headed for the low barn where grain sacks had been stacked, and Tobar was already ducking under the eaves of a cottage with a laugh, his voice carrying as he bargained for bread. Even Darius dismounted, his pale hair catching the light as he moved toward the edge of the square, stable as if none of this pressed on him at all.

  I stayed where I was. The gelding shifted beneath me, ears twitching at the din of the square. My eyes fixed on the chest at the soldiers’ feet, its mouth yawning wider with each clink of coin. The villagers came one after another. A bent old woman with her shawl pulled tight, a farmer whose hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the silver, even a boy no older than twelve clutching a pouch that sagged too heavy for him. Each pressed their offering forward and scrawled their names across the long parchment, the soldier’s quill scratching sharp in the silence between shouts.

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  The hopelessness in their faces weighed heavy. They weren’t fighting. They weren’t pleading. They were yielding. As if the tithe had been carved into their bones long before the parchment came.

  Elena eased her mare close until she was nearly knee to knee with me. Her dark hair slipped forward over her shoulder as she leaned in, her voice pitched low so it was for me alone.

  “Ugly business,” she murmured. “Don’t let it cut too deep. These folks know the game. They pay, they live to see another season.”

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “And if they can’t pay?”

  Her mouth tightened. For a moment she didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the boy’s shaking hands as he dragged the quill across the parchment. Then she sighed softly.

  “Then the High Lord gets his tithe in bodies instead of coin.”

  Her words struck hard, but not new. I already knew the truth she was naming. I knew it too well. Two winters past, when the soldiers came through my own village, they hadn’t asked who could fight or who was ready.

  Just like my brother. I never saw him again. Not his face, not even word of whether he’d lived through his first season in uniform. Only silence.

  The memory pressed hard now, watching the boy in the square scrawl his family’s name, his lip trembling as the soldier’s quill scratched it down. My chest ached with the hollow weight of it, the same emptiness that had opened the day they dragged my brother away.

  Elena nodded, meant for comfort, but it barely touched the edges of what stirred in me. I already knew what the High Lord’s tithes cost.

  The Rangers returned by degrees. Tobar with bundles of bread, Iven with salt and dried meat, Jaren shouldering two skins of ale with a grin that slipped quick when Darius scowled at him. Harl appeared last, wordless as always, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder and his hood pulled low, as if the noise of the square had never touched him.

  No one lingered. When they gathered again, Darius only tipped his head toward the road. “We ride.”

  No protest from the villagers, no farewells from the Brotherhood. Just a turning of hooves, a closing of distance. The square and its chest of coin fell behind us, swallowed by the hills as the road bent south again.

  We rode until the hills fell away behind us, until even the sound of the levy faded like it had never been. The others spoke little, their voices dulled to mutters and low laughter that rose and died as quick as sparks. I stayed silent. The image of the boy bent over the parchment clung to me, and beneath it, the memory of my brother’s back as he walked into the same fate.

  The sun climbed higher, thinning the mist to a pale glare. Fields stretched bare to either side, their furrows half-swallowed by weeds. Crows picked at the stubble where harvest had failed, their wings black against the gray sky. I let the gelding follow the line of horses, his stride steady, my hands slack on the reins.

  It was near dusk when Darius lifted his hand. A thin column of smoke rose ahead, curling faint against the dimming sky. Another village, smaller than the last, crouched low against the trees. The sound of voices carried faint on the wind, rough and urgent. My heart lurched once, wild and sharp.

  My pulse leapt. Too sharp, too fast. I knew that sound.

  We rode closer, and the sight came clear. Torches burning in the square, armor catching the last of the sun. Soldiers.

  I swallowed hard, my mouth gone dry. These weren’t just any soldiers. I knew the cut of their armor, the black of their trim.

  The Magister’s men.

  My breath snagged, a rush of heat and dread flooding through me as my eyes darted across their faces.

  My chest clenched tight. This was it. This had to be it.

  The Rangers slowed to a halt at the edge of the square. Darius’ voice came low. “No further.”

  I tore my eyes from the soldiers long enough to glance at him. His pale hair caught the firelight, but this expression was carved in shadow. “We don’t stand between the crown and its due. Not for levy, not for conscription. We ride in, we’ll be counted with the rest.”

  The others held back, their horses stamping against the mud, but I leaned forward in my saddle, straining to see past the cluster of villagers pressed into the square.

  The Ashpire Stone.

  The sight of it cut me open like the memory had been waiting beneath my skin. The boy crumpling into the mud, his body twitching before stillness claimed him. Viola, her small hand pressed against the jagged glass, flame sparking in her palm as she swayed but refused to fall. And Art… Art stepping forward, jaw set, eyes steady as he took the Stone into his hand so they would stop before they forced it on me.

  My throat closed. It was now, all over again.

  The soldier held the Stone high, the villagers recoiled just as the last had. Mothers pressed children to their skirts, men bowed their heads, no one daring to move. I gripped the reins tighter, nails biting into my palms.

  A thin line of chosen already stood apart near the well. Shapes more than faces from this distance. Still, I caught the way one boy’s head hung low, shoulders bent, and a woman beside him. The Stone’s veins flickered duller now, as though sated for the moment.

  I shifted in the saddle.

  Darius’s horse stepped into my path like a gate swinging shut. His voice stayed low, even. “This is where we part.”

  The words hit harder than I expected. “I–”

  I swallowed. “I understand.”

  “We don’t cross conscription,” he said. “Not for anyone. If we ride in, we’re counted, and the army will take that as license to press us. I won’t risk my people.”

  I squinted toward the square, the soldiers’ faces blurred by distance and firelight. One sat with his helm tilted the same way as the day they took Art. From this far I couldn’t be sure, but the shape of him dragged at me.

  I turned back to the Rangers, to the line that had carried me farther than I could’ve walked alone. “Thank you,” I said, and my voice came rougher than I meant. “For the road. For the fire… and for your help”

  Jaren ducked his head, suddenly shy. Tobar lifted his chin in a gruff nod. Iven’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but not unkind. Harl said nothing at all, only touched two fingers to his brow. Elena reached out and squeezed my forearm once, quick and warm. “Find him,” she murmured.

  Fira’s gaze held mine, steady as a hand on my back. “Watch your Casting,” she said. “And your temper.” Then, softer, “Come back this way if you can.”

  Darius gave one short nod. No speech. No promise. Just that.

  I nudged the gelding. He stepped forward, and the Brotherhood eased their mounts aside. As I passed, I caught each of them in the corner of my eye, felt the shape their presence made around me thin, then loosen, then fall away. I didn’t look back… until I did.

  They were already turning, putting their backs to the square. Darius led them out the way we’d come, pace unhurried, as if the world couldn’t force them quicker than they chose. Fira twisted in her saddle and looked over her shoulder. Our eyes caught and held a breath. She lifted two fingers off her rein, the smallest farewell. I answered it the same.

  Then I faced the square alone.

  I heel-touched the gelding into a walk, weaving between carts and faces that didn’t want to see me. Mud pulled at his hooves, while the smell of smoke and wet wool lay thick as a blanket.

  My heart lurched when I saw him – the bronze skinned man who had ridden close at the Magister’s stirrup the night they took Art. I knew his face, knew the sneer he wore like armor. For a breath, hope flared sharp and blinding. If he was here, then Art–

  But no. There were fewer soldiers this time. Half the number that had filled the square before. No Magister astride his black horse. No barked orders that carried like a sermon. Only this man, snapping commands as if trying to fill shoes that were too large.

  I searched the faces one by one, desperate. No broad shoulders, no jaw set like stone, no gray eyes steady on mine.

  Art wasn’t here.

  The truth pressed in cold: I hadn’t found them. Everything I’d bartered, bled, and burned to reach this place, all for it to collapse into the same empty square. They weren’t here.

  He wasn’t here.

  The weight of it caved me in until even hope felt like a lie I couldn’t afford to tell myself anymore.