Celeste

  Morning light broke through the trees, chasing away the shadows – and with them the weight of yesterday’s battle.

  I shifted, forcing my sore body upright. Each movement stirred pain, a reminder of the fight we’d endured. The ache from Enervation cut just as deep as the battle wounds, maybe deeper. Still, I rose. My muscles protested with every step, but I pushed through it. Blinking against the light, I glanced around the camp.

  Art was nowhere in sight.

  The campfire was cold and smothered. The pot and supplies he’d used to cook the rabbit were stacked neatly at the base of a nearby tree. The bodies of the people we’d fought were gone. He’d been up before me, already working to erase signs of our presence.

  I must’ve been more exhausted than I thought. For him to do all this without waking me… he was either unnervingly quiet, or I’d truly been dead to the world.

  Maybe both.

  With no clue where Art had gone or what his intentions might be, I decided to stay put and wait. There was little else I could do, so I turned my thoughts toward preparing for tomorrow. Escaping into the forest had been my only goal, a desperate, directionless bid for freedom. But now that I was no longer being hunted, at least for the moment, I had to confront a harder question.

  Where would I go?

  I couldn’t return to Avriel, even if I wanted to. There was nothing left for me there. No family. No friends. No one I could trust. I didn’t even know the full state of my hometown. Going back now would be foolish.

  My thoughts drifted to those who had been imprisoned alongside me. The little blonde-haired boy they sometimes let out of his cell, probably no older than nine. His eyes had always looked swollen from crying, but he’d still try to smile if he caught you looking his way. Doing his best to be brave.

  And then there was her.

  Faylen. The girl with the soft voice. The only person who had kept me sane, whispering stories of her life and family through the cracks in the stone between our cells. She’d told me about her younger brothers. How one of them had recently awakened as a Water Caster. He’d been so excited he ran clear across town to where she worked as a barmaid, just to tell her the news.

  I could hear the joy in her voice when she said he was the first caster ever born in their family. Her tone would grow wistful when she spoke of home: picking flowers in the mountain villages near Vitel or riding beside her father on trips to Thalor to sell wares. She missed them terribly.

  She had been a dreamer, always talking about escape and the things we’d do together, like it was a promise. Said we’d get out one day. That we’d find a place far from all this and start over. That I was welcome in her family’s home.

  Tears slipped free.

  But I hadn’t waited for her. When the moment came – when Kaelen and Davos dragged me from my cell that final time, and I cast my first Ardor Light and killed them…

  I ran.

  I didn’t look back. And now I lived with that. I didn’t even know if she was still alive. I didn’t know if they’d punished her for my escape.

  But the guilt was there, raw and festering. It lingered like a wound I couldn’t heal. I kept telling myself there was nothing I could’ve done. That if I had stayed, they would’ve sold me off anyway, just for someone else to continue the torment.

  But none of that mattered now. Because if she was still in that place, still whispering hope through the cracks in the stone…

  There was nothing I could do. I wasn’t strong enough to go back. I wasn’t a hero who could return and save everyone.

  I was just an Aberration – one with two gifts when most only had one. And even with that, I’d still needed someone else to save me.

  If only I had been stronger…

  I heard twigs snap nearby and quickly wiped away my tears. Turning toward the sound, I saw Art emerging through the trees.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Morning.” I hesitated, the word catching slightly in my throat.

  He moved to pack up the blanket and pillow I’d used, folding them with care before tucking them into his satchel. Then he turned back to me, his tone lighter now.

  “We should get moving soon. I followed the trail the horses left but didn’t see anyone,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they’re not out there. There’s a creek not far from here where we can freshen up before we continue. Figured you might like that.”

  “I haven’t had a proper bath in ages. You sure the creek’s deep enough?” I asked with a brittle smile.

  “Well, it’s not exactly a hot spring, but it’ll do.” he replied. “You’ll come out cleaner than you went in – mostly.”

  I laughed softly, the sound catching in my throat. “So, no scented oils or rose petals? What kind of service is that?” The words came out lighter than I felt, but I forced them anyway.

  “Not unless you count wet leaves,” he said, a faint smile breaking through. “Come on. Creek’s this way.”

  We started up the slope, weaving between trees as the morning light filtered through the canopy. The exchange had been small, but it lifted my mood more than I expected. For the first time in a long while, I was actually looking forward to something. A good wash would do me some good. Maybe I’d even clean his blanket and pillow as a quiet apology for getting my stench all over them.

  As we made our way toward the creek, Art told me a bit about the forest. While scouting for any trackers earlier that morning, he had stopped by the creek and seen a family of gray foxes drinking from the stream.

  When we first started our journey, he’d said it would take about an hour to get there. Yet somehow, he managed to visit the creek and scout for trackers all in the same morning.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  How does he get around so quickly without a horse? I wondered.

  I kept my questions to myself. I still had my own secrets; it wouldn’t be fair to start asking about his.

  He then explained that if I ever needed a drink of water and wasn’t near a stream, I could cut into the vinewood and drink the clear liquid inside. As we passed a tree, he peeled back some bark and showed me fireleaf. It burned hot and fast, making it a great fire starter.

  Art kept talking, educating me about Pylin Forest while I listened. With how much he knew, he could have told me he lived there, and I would’ve believed him.

  Art’s voice was easygoing, almost fond, as he continued. “If you see a squirrel throwing nuts at you, that’s Nettle. We’ve had disagreements,” he said with a straight face. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.

  He paused at a nearby bush and gestured toward the berries. “These are frostberries. Bitter, but safe to eat. Good for energy if you’ve got nothing else.”

  I eyed them suspiciously. “After you.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not hungry at the moment.”

  After a few more minutes of walking, we arrived at the creek. The water was clear, babbling softly as it wound between smooth stones and mossy banks. The sound was serene, lifting something in me I hadn’t realized I was still carrying.

  Art set his bags down and began unpacking some supplies. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out something wrapped in leather. Walking over toward me with what looked like a big white block of cheese, he placed it in my hands.

  “Here. Use this to wash up. It’s lye soap I picked up during my travels,” he said. “Don’t worry about using too much. I’ve got more. Works on clothes, too.”

  I glanced down at the worn, homemade soap in my hands. Even the idea of washing felt luxurious. It had been so long since I’d had the chance to feel clean – not just rinse off in dirty rainwater or scrub at my skin with torn fabric. A real bath. Even if it was only a cold stream.

  He turned back to his bag, rummaged again, and pulled free a clean shirt and pair of pants. He held them out.

  “Wear these while your clothes dry.”

  I blinked, caught off guard by his preparedness and the quiet way he kept offering kindness without asking for anything in return. Before I could find the words to thank him, he was already turning away.

  “I’ll be a few yards off. Just shout if you need anything,” he called over his shoulder.

  I stood there, soap in my hands, clothes draped over one arm. For a moment, I didn’t move. Overwhelmed by how simple it all was.

  I wasn’t used to this kind of consideration. Not anymore.

  Not since the stone cell.

  I exhaled slowly and stepped closer to the water.

  At the creek’s edge, I dipped my toes into the shallows. The water was cold, biting at first, but it quickly became something oddly refreshing.

  I set the borrowed clothes on a dry patch of stone and began peeling off the ones I’d arrived in. They were stiff with sweat, dirt, and blood. My fingers brushed the burn mark across my chest. It hadn’t fully healed yet, but if I kept working on it over the next few days, I might be able to avoid scarring.

  Once undressed, I waded into the creek. The shock of the cold wrapped around me, and I plunged in all at once to acclimate quickly.

  I sat waist-deep, letting the current swirl around me. For a few breaths, I just stayed there, still, letting the cold seep into my bones and wash away some of the exhaustion.

  Unwrapping the soap, I caught a faint scent of pine and ash. It was comforting. I lathered it over my skin and scrubbed hard, as if I could erase the last remnants of that place with every stroke.

  When I finished with my body, I reached for my clothes and began scrubbing those too.

  Back on the bank, I wrung out the damp fabric as best I could and spread it across a sunlit rock to dry. The shirt Art had given me was a little loose, the pants cinched at the waist with a simple drawstring.

  I squeezed the water from my hair and followed the way Art had gone. He must’ve thought I needed half the forest to myself, because it took forever before I finally spotted him sitting on a rock.

  He turned his head when he heard me approach.

  “The clothes fit perfectly,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “Keep that up and I might not give them back,” I shot back with a playful smirk tugging at my lips.

  He chuckled and rummaged through his supplies. Pulling out another bar of soap and a fresh set of clothes, he stood and slung them over his shoulder.

  “There’s some waterfowl eggs I boiled earlier. Help yourself while I go get cleaned up,” he said, nodding toward the pot before heading off the way I’d come.

  I watched him disappear into the trees before turning back to the pot. Inside, a few boiled eggs waited.

  I crouched beside the pot and cracked one open, the steam still clinging to the shell. The first bite was soft and warm. I closed my eyes briefly in appreciation.

  “Looks like the man can cook and hunt,” I muttered under my breath, popping the rest of the egg into my mouth. A sly smile tugged at my lips. “Maybe I really should keep the clothes.”

  By the time the eggs were gone, Artemis returned from his bath, his hair still damp and a clean shirt clinging to his frame. He glanced at me.

  “How was breakfast?”

  “Better than rabbit skin, I’ll give you that.” The words came out caught somewhere between playful and wary.

  “Good. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed your fill,” he replied with a faint smile.

  Lifting a hand to his head, he began using Wind casting to dry his hair more quickly. I’d never been around a Wind Caster before, so watching it happen felt a little surreal.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it.

  “Must be nice, having your own personal windstorm on command,” I said, amused.

  He glanced sideways at me, water still dripping from a few damp strands. “You could do the same, you know. With a little practice.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I doubt that.”

  He chuckled. “It’s true. Control is everything. For example, I can only push small amounts of air this way. If I wanted to expel a larger force, I’d have to pull the energy through my body first.”

  His tone shifted, more serious. “Ardor’s about precision, not just power. You’ve already shaped it---- – controlled the size and force behind your attack. Directed it where you wanted. That’s not something most beginners manage.”

  I tilted my head, considering his words. “How do you know I’m a beginner?”

  He gave me a look – steady, almost amused. “Because control and instinct aren’t the same. You can direct it, even rein in its size, but I can feel the strain when you do. That means you don’t own it yet. It still owns you.”

  “So you’re saying I could use heat, too?”

  He nodded. “With refinement. Light and warmth go hand in hand. Focus enough, and you can generate heat without burning. Just takes discipline.”

  I glanced toward the creek. “Never thought of it like that.”

  “Most don’t,” he replied, lowering his hand now that his hair was mostly dry. “Ardor’s tricky. Not as direct as Wind or Fire, but with the right technique, it’s incredibly versatile.”

  I studied him for a beat, puzzled. “How do you know so much about Ardor? It’s rare. Most people go their who lives without even meeting a Light Caster. I’d never met one myself – until I became one.”

  He held my gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “I met someone once who could cast Ardor, like you. But unlike you, he wasn’t an Aberration.”

  I blinked at him, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Meeting two Light Casters, when most people never even meet one. You really do get around.”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve been to a lot of places. Seen more than most.”

  I watched him for a moment longer. He didn’t look much older than me – mid-twenties maybe, if that. Not a crease lined his face. His eyes were sharp, but they didn’t carry the weight I’d expect from someone claiming to have seen so much.

  So how?

  How did someone so young know Ardor like second nature? How had he met two Light Casters, moved through the forest like he’d lived in it his whole life, and cast so many elements as if it was nothing?

  I was tired of staying quiet. Tired of pretending I didn’t see the pieces of him that didn’t fit. I’d never even heard of a Caster who could wield more than two elements. Yet here he was, standing in front of me. Acting like the miracle he pulled off during yesterday’s battle didn’t mean anything.

  He was hiding something. That much was certain. But he was also the first person I’d met who understand casting – my casting – better than anyone else.

  And that’s what mattered now.

  If I was ever going to be strong enough to stop running, to go back, I couldn’t do it alone.

  Not anymore.

  I lifted my gaze, steady now.

  “Then show me. Teach me how to control it. Ardor. All of it. I want to learn.”