Celeste

  Sleep did not come easily.

  I’d expected exhaustion to drag me under the moment I closed my eyes, but instead I spent half the night staring at the ceiling while Lioren snored loud enough to rattle the window shutters.

  Separate beds or not, there was no escaping the noise. He snored like he fought – dramatically, enthusiastically, and with no regard for the suffering of those around him.

  At one point I tossed a pillow at him. It hit, but he didn’t notice.

  By dawn, my head felt full of sand.

  I pushed myself upright, rubbing at gritty eyes, and let the quiet light of early morning settle around the small inn room. Lioren was sprawled on his back in the other bed, mouth slightly open, looking unfairly peaceful for someone who had assaulted my ears for hours.

  Art had never snored. He barely made a sound when he slept.

  The thought came unbidden, soft but sharp at the edges. I tried not to linger on the memory of the rise and fall of his breathing, the way the silence around him always felt safe instead of smothering.

  I exhaled, then swung my legs over the side of the bed.

  Time to get ready.

  I dressed quietly, gathering my things with practiced movements, careful not to wake the sleeping disaster across the room. The inn was already stirring with muffled voices, a clatter of dishes, and the faint smell of bread and woodsmoke as soon as I opened the door.

  The morning felt cool against my skin as I tied back my hair and slipped my satchel over my shoulder.

  I stepped outside, letting the door fall shut behind me with a soft click. Morning had fully settled over the village, slow and sleepy, smoke curling from chimneys, a few merchants lifting stall covers as they prepared for the day.

  I walked without direction, following the worn dirt paths between cottages and market stands. A dog stretched in a patch of sunlight. A pair of children chased each other past a store. Everything moved with the quiet rhythm of a life untouched by some of the hardships facing the rest of the country.

  Art would have liked this place. Or maybe he’d simply have been relieved to see me somewhere peaceful.

  My throat tightened.

  I hated thinking of him still in captivity. Hated imagining chains biting into his wrists, hated the way my mind painted him alone in the dark with no one coming. I kept hoping, praying, almost, that he had already escaped. That he’d slipped free the way he always seemed to find a path where it looked like none existed.

  But the hope came with its own shadow.

  If he did escape… would he look for me?

  Or would he believe I’d done what he asked and gone straight to Rodin without hesitation?

  I should have listened to him. Should have followed his plan.

  Instead, I’d turned south after him, stubborn and desperate, convinced I could help, convinced I could reach him in time. If I hadn’t… if I hadn’t let my fear and guilt steer me…

  I closed my eyes hard, forcing the thought away before it could finish tearing through me.

  I didn’t know where he was.

  I didn’t know if he was safe.

  And the worst part, the part that sat like a stone at the bottom of my chest, was not knowing whether I’d ever see him again.

  A breeze stirred through the open lane, carrying the smell of damp earth and baking bread. Ordinary things. Safe things.

  I let myself stand there, hands still, breath drifting out in a slow, uneven ribbon.

  Somewhere out there, Art was alive. I had to believe that. I wasn’t ready to give up on him. Not yet.

  I drew in another slow breath, letting it empty out of me as I started walking again.

  And somewhere between one step and the next, another thought surfaced. Lioren really hadn’t been lying about traveling with me.

  Whatever he’d said to Darius, it must have been that he was accompanying me to Rodin. They didn’t look to pleased with whatever they discussed. Even before they slipped off to speak in private, something had changed in the air.

  I rubbed at my brow.

  Perhaps I should tell him not to come. Be more forceful in my attempt to stop him.

  He didn’t owe me anything. He didn’t even know me, not really. And the Brotherhood, well, they were his people. His life. His rhythm. He looked at them the way someone looked at the only home they’d ever had, even if he pretended to be a thorn in all their sides.

  Dragging him away from that felt… wrong. Selfish, even.

  Maybe he’d reconsidered by morning. Part of me hoped he would. Another part flinched at the thought of being alone again.

  I pushed both those feelings down and kept walking.

  A small bakery had opened its shutters, warm air drifting out, the smell of yeast and honey. My stomach twisted in on itself, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since last night.

  I slipped inside.

  I bought a small breakfast and then carried it outside where I found a spot by a barrel-made table.

  I ate slowly, letting the warmth of the bread settle something hollow in my chest. The village continued to wake around me.

  I’d started on the next bite when a shadow fell across the makeshift table.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Well,” Lioren said, lifting a cup in a lazy salute, “look who’s up before noon.”

  He stood there looking absurdly awake for someone who’d snored enough to shake the rafters. His hair was a mess, sticking up like he’d fought a pillow and lost, but this grin was bright and unbothered.

  Then I noticed his drink.

  “Is that ale?” I asked. “It’s barely morning.”

  He took a hearty swallow like I’d complimented him.

  “Aye,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best way to start the day.”

  “You woke up and immediately started drinking?”

  “Of course not,” he said, affronted. “I woke up, stretched, then started drinkin’.”

  I stared at him.

  He leaned an elbow on the barrel-shaped table, lowering his voice like he was about to impact ancient wisdom.

  “As my dear grandmother used to say,” he recited solemnly, “pour the cure that poisons you, and you’ll never fear either.”

  I blinked. “… That doesn’t make sense.”

  Lioren shrugged. “Neither did she, but the woman lived to sixty-seven on spite and breakfast ale, so who am I to argue?”

  He took another drink.

  I tore off another small piece of bread, more to busy my hands than because I was hungry, and cleared my throat.

  “Lioren, I–”

  I paused, searching for the right words, and the ones that didn’t make me sound ungrateful or selfish or… whatever this tangle of feelings was.

  He was watching me, still smirking over the rim of his cup, but something in his eyes sharpened, like he knew exactly where my thoughts were heading.

  “About you coming with me–”

  But before I could finish, footsteps approached from the lane beside the bakery.

  “Morning,” Fira called, her voice cutting cleanly through the space between us.

  Iven walked just behind her, hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable as ever. The two of them slowed to a stop at our table, offering polite nods.

  I straightened. “Good morning.”

  Lioren’s smile flickered. His whole posture shifted, shoulders tensing, jaw tightening just a fraction. Whatever had passed between them yesterday still lingered like smoke in the air.

  Fira’s eyes flicked to the cup in his hand. “Starting early?”

  “Finishin’,” Lioren corrected lightly, holding up the mug. “Apparently I’ve got to down this before we head out.”

  Iven arched a brow. “Do you, now?”

  Lioren didn’t answer. He just tipped the cup back and finished the ale in one long, determined swallow, slamming it down with a muted thud.

  Then he stepped away from the table, already falling into stride beside them.

  Only after he moved did Fira turn her attention fully to me.

  “Anna,” she said gently, “would you mind coming with us for a moment?”

  Lioren stepped in before I could answer, lifting a hand in the air like he was warding off an incoming blow.

  “Oh, she doesn’t need to come,” he said quickly. “Truly. She’s busy. Eating bread. Thinking deep thoughts. Very occupied.”

  Iven’s stare slid toward him slowly, unimpressed.

  Fira didn’t blink. “She does.”

  The answer was simple. Flat. And with no room to sidestep.

  Lioren’s mouth opened as if he had another retort ready, but one look from Fira shut him down mid-breath. He snapped his jaw shut and nodded his head.

  Then, quieter, with far less bravado. “Aye. Right. Of course she does.”

  He stepped aside, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding everyone’s eyes at once.

  I pushed my half-eaten bread aside and rose, pulse ticking a little faster.

  Whatever this was… it clearly wasn’t nothing.

  Fira asked that we gather our horses and meet her and Iven at the edge of the village. She didn’t go into detail as to where we were going or for what reason, and I didn’t ask.

  Lioren and I walked in silence toward the inn’s small paddock. Neither of us tried to break it. His earlier brightness had slipped away entirely, whatever brittle humor he wore now replaced with something quieter. He moved with a kind of subdued focus, checking his horse’s girth, tightening straps, all without so much as a glance in my direction.

  I saddled the gelding in the same muted quiet, my hands moving on muscle memory alone. The air between us felt heavier than it had last night. Not hostile. Just… strange.

  By the time we led our horses out of the village edge, Fira and Iven were already mounted, waiting in the pale morning light.

  “Good,” Fira said. “Let’s ride.”

  We fell in behind them, the four of us moving down the dirt road and toward the trees. The village faded behind us, the hum of voices, all swallowed by the quiet stretch of forest ahead.

  It wasn’t until we passed beneath the first canopy of branches that I noticed that Fira’s mare had no flowers in her mane.

  No woven sprigs of lavender or daisies. No little twists of meadow bloom brightening her dark coat.

  Fira had walked through an entire market yesterday with a basket full of flowers for the sole purpose of braiding them into her mare’s mane, yet there wasn’t a single one in it this morning.

  The absence sat strangely on me, like a wrong note in a familiar song.

  Something was different.

  And none of them seemed ready to say it out loud.

  We rode in silence for a while, hooves thudding softly against the packed earth. The forest closed in around us, branches swaying in the faint morning breeze. No one spoke. Even Lioren, who normally couldn’t stand quiet for more than three breaths.

  The road curved, and as we rounded the bend, figures emerged through the trees.

  The rest of the Brotherhood.

  As soon as they saw us, the group shifted, horses angling to join our formation. They moved with practiced ease, fanning out until they flanked us on both sides – an escort, whether intentional or instinctual.

  Harl flashed me a stiff smile.

  Elena offered a quiet nod. Jaren dipped his chin. Tobar lifted two fingers from his reins in greeting.

  Their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

  Everyone looked at me.

  All except Darius. He didn’t spare me even a glance, just kept his gaze ahead, reins held in a grip a shade too firm. The air around him felt colder somehow, the calm he usually wore stretched thin.

  We continued forward together, the eight of them and me forming a small procession through the woods.

  We had passed their campsite that they stayed in last night. I could still see their belongings hanging on trees and tents still pitched. I had thought that was our destination, but we just rode past and kept on going.

  My fingers tightened around the reins.

  A prickle ran down my spine, small at first, then sharper. I trusted them since they saved my life.

  But trust didn’t erase the knot forming low in my stomach. And for the first time since the day I’d met the Brotherhood, a thin line of caution slid into the space between my chest.

  The trees thinned ahead.

  We rode into a wide clearing with an open patch of pale morning light surrounded by tall pines and quiet underbrush. Dew clung to the grass, shimmering faintly. It should have felt peaceful… but it didn’t.

  As soon as we entered, the Brotherhood began to move with quiet purpose. Horses shifted outward, widening the formation until they formed a half moon around the space. No one spoke. No orders were given. They simply… moved. As if this had been decided long before I woke this morning.

  Fira slowed her mare near the center and swung down from the saddle. The others followed suit. Darius first, landing with the controlled precision of someone preparing for whatever came next. Iven and Tobar dismounted like shadows. Elena and Jaren opposite them, lingering a beat behind. Harl stilled himself and then hopped down.

  All dismounting.

  All watching.

  Lioren slid off his horse last. He didn’t look at me.

  My gelding came to a stop beside him, breath steady, ears flicking. My hands stayed wrapped around the reins even as the others started to drift into the clearing on foot.

  For a moment, I didn’t move.

  Something in me resisted climbing down.

  Not out of fear, just instinct. The quiet sense that once I set my feet on the ground, I’d be stepping into something I couldn’t step out of again.

  Fira noticed my hesitation.

  She turned, expression softening just enough to ease the tension in my stomach. Her smile didn’t erase the unease, but it offered a place to stand.

  “It’s alright,” she said gently. “Come on.”

  I swallowed, nodded once, and swung my leg over the saddle.

  My boots hit the earth with a muted thud.

  The air in the clearing felt different on the ground: heavier, expectant, as thought the morning itself were holding its breath.

  Around me, the Brotherhood waited. Not looming. Not threatening. Just… watching.

  And whatever this was, whatever they had brought me here for.

  It was finally close enough to touch.

  Fira took a steady step toward me, hands loose at her sides, expression unreadable.

  “Celeste, we need to talk.”

  My heart stumbled. The ground felt unsteady beneath my boots. No one else should have known that name. No one but Lioren.

  Lioren, who stared at the dirt like it might swallow him.

  A cold bloom of dread unfurled in my ribs.

  This wasn’t about the road. About travel plans or even about Rodin.

  This was about me.

  And suddenly I wasn’t sure if the Brotherhood had brought me out here to protect me–

  –or to decide what to do with me.