Celeste

  The morning came quiet, with pale light slipping through the shutters. I lay awake long before it reached me, staring at the ceiling beams above Calla’s spare bed. The house creaked as it settled, the faint scent of smoke from last night’s fire still clinging to the air.

  Sleep hadn’t stayed with me. Every time I drifted off, I saw her face and the way I last remembered it, covered in blood, her voice breaking as she tried to call my name. The memory clung to me like frost.

  I pushed myself up, the blanket falling from my shoulder, and sat there a moment just to steady my breath. My throat ached, my chest felt hollow. I knew the question was coming, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to ask it.

  When I stepped into the main room, Art was already awake. He sat near the hearth with his back against the wall, honing his sword across his lap with a whetstone, as if he’d kept vigil the whole night. He only glanced at me briefly before looking away, giving me the gift of silence.

  Calla was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something over the fire. Her shoulders were thinner than I remembered, her braid streaked with gray. But she moved with the steady purpose I’d always known.

  I stood there longer than I meant to, hands tight at my sides. Finally, the words broke free.

  “Calla.”

  She turned, a wooden spoon still in her hand. “Mm?”

  I swallowed. My voice came out softer than I wanted. “Did you bury her?”

  The humming stopped. For a heartbeat, the house went still. Then Calla set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron, her gaze searching mine.

  “We did,” she said gently. “The morning after they took you.”

  My breath caught. I had braced myself for the answer, but it still cut deeper than I expected.

  “Show me,” I whispered.

  Calla didn’t ask if I was sure. She just nodded once and untied her apron.

  “Come,” she said, her voice low.

  The morning air outside was cooler than I expected, sharp against my skin. The village was only just stirring with thin trails of smoke rising from a few chimneys. Doors creaked open as people stepped out to start their day. Heads turned as we passed, whispers trailing behind us like shadows. Most faces I recognized, now more aged and weathered, even though it had only been a few months since I’ve been gone.

  Art followed a step behind, silent as ever. I caught his presence more than I heard him, like a shadow that never strayed too far.

  Calla led us past the square and down a narrow path that wound between the last of the houses. The dirt gave way to grass worn thin in places, dotted with withered wildflowers that had sprung up despite the neglect. My stomach tightened the farther we went, every step heavier than the last.

  It didn’t take long before I knew where we were headed.

  The path ended in a small clearing on the hillside, the ground uneven but carefully tended. A cluster of markers stood there, some carved, some little more than smoothed stones pressed into the earth. I had played here as a child, running between the trees, never thinking I would come back to it like this.

  Calla stopped in front of one of the markers. A flat stone, its edges chipped, with a single name carved into the surface. The letters were uneven, but clear enough.

  I froze. My knees felt weak.

  Calla’s hand brushed my arm, steadying me. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

  I took a slow breath and stepped forward, kneeling down until my fingers touched the cool stone. My name was carved beneath hers, the letters shallow. As if someone had tried to write that I had died too.

  The air seemed to press in around me, heavy, unrelenting.

  “I should’ve been there,” I whispered, though my voice broke before the words could carry.

  Calla lingered near me for a moment longer, then gave my arm a gentle squeeze. She stepped back down the path, her footsteps fading into the hush of the clearing until only Art and I remained. He didn’t come closer. Just waited, still and silent, as though even his presence might disturb the air around me.

  I stayed where I was, kneeling before the stone. The words I wanted to say tangled in my chest until all I could do was bow my head and let the silence hold them. The ground smelled of earth and moss, and the carved name blurred as my eyes stung and drops fell to the ground.

  When I finally rose, my knees unsteady, I brushed my fingers once more across the cool stone. “Forgive me,” I whispered, but the wind swallowed it.

  I turned down the slope, each step heavier than the last.

  Behind me, I heard him move.

  I looked back. Art stood before the grave now, his head lowered. For a long breath he was still, silent. Then he knelt, laying one palm flat against the ground.

  A faint shimmer rippled outward, subtle as heat over stone. The brittle grass softened, color bleeding back into its blades. Wildflowers at the edge of the marker lifted their heads, petals opening to catch the light. It wasn’t loud, or bright, or meant for anyone but her. Just enough to make the place look cared for. Alive.

  I stopped halfway down the path, my throat tightening all over again.

  I didn’t know healing could work that way.

  I didn’t call out to him. Didn’t let him know I’d seen. I just stood there a heartbeat longer before turning back toward the village, the hush of the clearing still pressed against my skin.

  Art caught up without a word. His boots crunched lightly against the grass, steady and deliberate, and for a while, we walked side by side in silence.

  The path back wound downhill through the thinning trees. I knew these slopes well; I’d raced through them as a child, chasing laughter and summer winds. Now the air carried only the hush of morning, broken by the caw of a crow somewhere distant. Every sight felt changed. Smaller. Duller. Or maybe it was me.

  Calla waited where the trail met the edge of the village, her hands folded, eyes searching my face. She didn’t ask what had passed. She didn’t have to. She only gave me a small nod, the kind that said she understood, and then turned to lead us back.

  We crossed the square again, villagers stealing glances as we passed. Their whispers followed us, faint and uncertain, and I felt the weight of their eyes settle like a second shadow.

  Beside me, Art remained quiet, his expression unreadable. Still, his presence anchored me. Steady. Solid. Like a shadow that never strayed far.

  We had barely stepped back into the square when the first of them came forward. An older woman, Marta, with lines carved deep into her face clutched her shawl tight as she looked me over.

  “Celeste?” Her voice cracked on my name. “By the gods… is it really you?”

  I forced a smile, though it didn’t hold. “It’s me.”

  Another villager – a man I half-remembered from childhood – stepped closer, his hands working nervously against each other. “We though… we thought you were gone. All this time. Where have you–” He stopped, words faltering, as though the rest of the sentence was too heavy to finish.

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  The air around us thickened with whispers. Faces leaned from doorways, from behind low stone walls. Curious, cautious, their eyes clung to me like burrs.

  “I’m here now,” I said softly. It was all I could give.

  For a moment, the weight seemed to ease, but then another voice cut through the murmur.

  “You say that like it explains anything.”

  The crowd shifted, making way for a stockier man I knew by sight, Hugh, though we’d rarely spoken by name. His jaw was tight, his gaze sharp as flint. He crossed his arms and looked me up and down, not unkindly, but with suspicion that stung sharper than hostility.

  “How?” he asked. “How did you escape?”

  The question dropped like a stone into the square. Even the whispers hushed, the villagers, waiting, hungry for an answer.

  My throat tightened. I could feel Art behind me, steady as a wall, but he didn’t speak. He let the silence stretch, let it belong to me.

  My mouth went dry. Dozens of eyes clung to me, waiting. Demanding.

  “I didn’t escape,” I said at last, forcing the words past my teeth. “I survived long enough for the chance to come. That’s it.”

  A murmur ran through the square, a ripple of relief mixed with doubt. Some lowered their eyes, as if ashamed they had even asked. Others studied me longer, suspicion still sharp in their gaze, like they wanted more than I was willing to give.

  Calla shifted closer, her arm brushing mine, steady and firm. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence.

  But one man didn’t step back. His eyes slid past me to where Art stood, silent and steady at my shoulder.

  “And him?” the man asked, his voice carrying louder than it needed to. “Who is he? Did he help you escape? Or is he the reason you’re standing her now?”

  The crowd’s attention shifted toward Art, sharp and waiting.

  My chest tightened. “He–” I started, ready to tell them he wasn’t the enemy. That without him, I wouldn’t have made it back at all.

  But Art’s voice cut in before I could finish. Calm. Even. “I came across her by chance,” he said, the whetstone-calm of his tone carrying easily through the square. “When I saw she needed help, I couldn’t just walk on. So I made sure she got home.”

  The words settled over the square like water poured on a flame. Some of the tension bled out of the air. A few heads nodded.

  Art let that hang for a breath before adding, easy and almost conversational, “Truth is, I could use a few things myself. Supplies for the road. I’ve coin enough to pay fair.”

  That got their attention. The shift was almost instant – suspicion draining into calculation as the promise of coin settled over the square.

  A man at the back cleared his throat. “Supplies we can manage.”

  I glanced at Art, but his face gave nothing away. He made it look effortless, turning wary stares into nods of approval with a few calm words and the offer of coin.

  I couldn’t tell if that was who he was, or just another mask he wore.

  “Dried grain, we’ve got some left,” one man called out, almost too quickly.

  “I can spare cloth,” another offered, clutching at the threadbare bundle in her arms as if second-guessing herself.

  Someone else muttered about salted fish, though the look in his eyes said he needed it as much as he wanted to sell it.

  The eagerness in their voices hit me harder than their suspicion had. These were people I’d grown up with, faces I’d known since I could walk, and now they scrambled to trade scraps for coin. Desperation had worn them thin, hollowed them out in ways I hadn’t expected.

  Art inclined his head politely to the offers. “I’ll come by shortly,” he said, as though the whole exchange were perfectly ordinary. He looked back toward me and Calla, his tone as even as ever. “I’ll see what I can gather. In the meantime, you should rest.”

  And with that, he excused himself into the crowd, already moving toward the voices that had promised supplies.

  Calla walked me back toward her house, her arm brushing mine every so often like she was afraid I might vanish if she let me go. When we stepped inside, the smell of simmering broth and herbs had already filled the air. She set bowls on the table, motioning for me to sit, the warmth of the fire wrapped around us like a blanket.

  I sat stiffly at first, staring into the bowl more than eating, but Calla filled the silence the way she always did.

  “Your home’s still standing, you know,” she said, her tone careful, almost hopeful. “They broke some things during the raid. The doorframe’s split, and a few shutters are gone. But it’s there.” She gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Some of the women gathered what they could afterward. A few… assumed you weren’t coming back. Took bits and pieces. Dishes, linens. Clothes.”

  Her voice softened. “But if you want them back, I’ll help you gather what’s yours. They’d give it up if they knew you were here. I’m sure of it.”

  I tightened my grip on the spoon, the broth barely touched. The thought of stepping back into that house, of trying to live among what was left, turned my stomach.

  “I…” the word stuck, heavy on my tongue.

  Calla looked at me, patient, waiting.

  “I’m not staying.” The words came out sharper than I meant, but once spoken, I couldn’t take them back.

  Her smile faded, brows drawing in. “Not staying?” she echoed softly. “Then where will you go? What do you plan to do?”

  I stirred the broth without tasting it, watching the surface ripple. “I don’t know yet,” I said finally. “But I can’t stay here. Not like this.”

  “Celeste…” Calla’s voice held a plea I hadn’t heard since I was a child. “You’ve been through enough. This is your home. You’d have people here. A roof, food, safety.”

  I shook my head, still not looking at her. “It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. Then her words came, softer, sharper. “And your brother? What about him? When he comes back from the war and learns your mother is… do you mean for him to find the house empty? To come back to nothing?”

  The spoon slipped in my hand, clattering against the bowl. My chest tightened at the thought. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady.

  “He won’t find nothing,” I said. “He’ll find the truth, same as I did.”

  Calla leaned forward, her hand brushing mine. “And if the truth breaks him? If he comes back and you’re not here, too? Don’t you think he deserves at least one piece of his family left?”

  I pulled my hand back, throat tight. “He deserves more than this place can give. And I can’t be what he needs, not anymore.”

  Her eyes searched mine, the hurt plain in them, but I couldn’t hold her gaze. The silence that followed pressed heavier than words, filling every corner of the little house.

  I finished the meal in silence, the taste of broth long forgotten beneath the weight of our words. Calla didn’t press me again. She let it settle between us.

  A knock at the door broke the stillness. Calla rose, wiping her hands on her apron before opening it.

  A villager stood in the doorway, Jerrin, a middle-aged man with a patchy beard. His hat twisted nervously in his hands. “Calla,” he said, his voice low, uneasy. “There are riders. Spotted them from the south road, just past the ridge. Not coming in, but… watching, maybe. Hard to tell from this distance.”

  He glanced past her shoulder, and his eyes landed on me for a fraction too long. The look made my skin prickle.

  Calla didn’t miss it either. She squared her shoulders, calm and steady. For as long as I could remember, the villagers had looked to her in times of trouble. Not because she held any title, but because she carried herself as if she already had.

  “How many?” She asked.

  “Half a dozen at least. Maybe more, can’t be sure. Some of the men think it could be scouts for another raid.” He hesitated, shifting form one foot to the other. “We thought you should know first.”

  Calla’s jaw tightened, and though her voice stayed even, I heard the strain behind it. “Stay sharp, then. Keep the children close, and don’t stray behind the square. I’ll speak with the others.”

  The man gave a short nod, but his eyes flicked toward me again before he left. The weight of that look lingered long after the door shut, like a shadow crawling over the room.

  The door had barely shut when it opened again, this time with Art stepping through. He carried a small bundle slung under one arm. He carried supplies, neatly wrapped in cloth, and his eyes swept the room once before settling on me.

  “They’re coming,” he said simply.

  Calla’s face hardened. “How close?”

  “Close enough that the ground shakes when they move,” Art replied, settling the bundle down.

  The three of us stepped outside, and the air felt different. Tight. Expectant. Villagers had already gathered at the edge of the square, pitchforks, rusted blades, even kitchen knives clutched in nervous hands. Their faces were pale but set, the kind of fear that had been swallowed down too many times to count.

  Down the north road, dust plumed in the morning light. Hooves pounded in rhythm, drawing nearer.

  Calla stood straighter beside me, though I could hear the breath catch in her chest. She leaned closer, her words low and grim. “The only Casters left are Merel and Garron.”

  I followed her gaze to an older woman clutching a staff, her braid streaked white, and a gray-bearded man standing stiffly with a hand on his belt.

  “Merel’s Fire,” Calla said. “And Garron’s Wind. They weren’t drafted because of their age, and thank the gods for it, but…” Her voice trailed, the truth clear in the shake of her head. “They’re not what they once were. If it comes to a fight, they won’t hold long.”

  The riders crested the hill then, a line of dark figures cutting sharp against the sky. Sunlight glinted off steel. Their numbers doubled what had been reported, closer to a dozen now, not half.

  Around me, villagers shifted uneasily, gripping their makeshift weapons tighter. The square felt too small, too fragile to bear what was coming.

  Art stepped forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, calm as ever. “Then it’s not their fight to win,” he said.

  The horses slowed to a steady trot, then fanned out as the riders reined up at the village entrance. Dust drifted around them, curling in the morning air. The villagers pressed closer together, fear thick as smoke.

  Two of the riders pulled ahead, and my stomach dropped. I knew their faces. The gray-bearded one and his younger companion. It was the same men who’d cornered me at the stables. Their eyes found me now without hesitation, the recognition plain and sharp.

  The older one leaned forward in his saddle, scanning the crowd before letting his gaze settle squarely on me. His lips twitched. “We’re looking for a girl,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the square. “Name of Celeste. There’s a fine bounty on her head.”

  Murmurs rippled through the villagers. A few heads turned my way. The weight of their eyes pressed into my skin like knives.

  The younger rider smirked, raising a hand. A small flame flickered to life in his palm, lazy at first, then flaring higher until the heat of it reached even the front line of villagers. He let it drop into the dirt where it hissed and spat, leaving a blackened scar.

  “Best make this easy,” he drawled. “Hand her over, and no one gets burned.”

  The hush that followed was heavier than any threat. Calla stiffened at my side, but she didn’t speak. The villagers shifted again, some edging back, others staring at me outright.

  And for the first time since I returned, I felt every ounce of the danger I had brought with me.