Catherine reached home late that afternoon, boots dusty and mood sour. The hem of her skirt was speckled with dried mud, and her calves ached with every step. The moment she stepped through the door, warmth hit her face.

  Her mother was by the hearth, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, stirring a pot that smelled like onions and something hearty enough to forgive a bad day. She looked up at once. “How was your day?”

  Catherine let out a long sigh and dropped her satchel onto the bench with more force than necessary.

  “Awful,” she said. “I walked across town and only made thirty-five coppers. Three jobs. Each one took more than an hour.” She scowled at the number like it had personally insulted her. “And don’t even get me started on how much of that was walking.”

  Her mother’s brow lifted. “Thirty-five isn’t nothing.”

  Catherine sighed, rubbing the ache out of her calves.

  Her father was home too, seated at the table with a ledger open, spectacles perched low on his nose. He didn’t even look surprised, just amused in that quiet way adults could afford. “We all start small, Cathy.”

  “Well,” Catherine responded, “this is smaller than small, considering all the effort I put in.”

  Her father chuckled and finally closed the ledger, folding his hands over it as if concluding a lesson. “Whenever you start anything new, the point of going around town, or any place, to work isn’t only to make money.” He nodded toward the satchel. “It’s to get to know everyone. Know what they do. Let them know you’re there to help.”

  Catherine opened her mouth, ready to argue, but he was already continuing, voice mild and steady, like this was a truth he’d learned the expensive way.

  “Wealth fades,” he continued. “It’s what we build in others that endures.”

  Catherine, too tired to argue properly, accepted the answer with a grumble that was more breath than protest. She ate dinner, answered her mother’s gentle questions with half-truths and shrugs, grabbed her satchel, then retreated to her bedroom, keeping the compass she’d found firmly secret.

  Even alone, she checked the door twice before loosening the satchel and sliding the amulet out. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Or maybe that was only the weight of what it implied. Catherine stared at it in the lamplight.

  Thirty-five coppers weren’t the only thing she’d earned today.

  The next morning, Catherine was up earlier than usual. By the time her mother entered the kitchen, she had already set the table, brewed tea, and eaten her own breakfast like a soldier preparing for a campaign. She stood by the counter, hands clasped behind her back, wearing the innocent expression she reserved for requests that were absolutely not innocent.

  Her mother narrowed her eyes. “You’re cheerful for someone who was pouty the night before.”

  “I’m just being practical,” Catherine corrected. Then she held out her hand. “May I borrow one of your combat rings?”

  Her mother blinked. “One of my—And for what reason, young miss?”

  “It’s just for safety,” Catherine said quickly. “Some jobs take me into the forest. If something jumps me. Boar, wolf, bandit, monster—”

  “Monster,” her mother echoed, as if Catherine had casually suggested she might trip over a dragon on the way to fetch herbs.

  Catherine nodded like this was perfectly normal. “I’d rather be prepared.”

  Her mother studied her for a long moment, then sighed the sigh of a woman who had raised Catherine long enough to know when resistance was futile. She went to her bedroom and, not long after, came out with the ring: a simple metal band with a red jewel, faintly etched, warm with stored craft. She placed it in Catherine’s palm.

  “One ring,” she warned. “No trouble. And you come straight home if you hear anything you can’t explain.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Catherine said, far too fast. She kissed her mother’s cheek, whistled for Barrel, and was out the door before the warning could grow teeth.

  As soon as she was clear of the house, Catherine pulled the compass from her pocket. The needle didn’t point north, as expected. It pulled insistently, straight toward the forest. As she followed it, the same glowing stone from the day before began to brighten, strengthening with every step she took away from town.

  Barrel trotted ahead, tail high, occasionally glancing back to make sure she was still behind him. They were near the familiar waterfall, almost at the cave entrance she and Barrel had found, when something snapped through the air and landed at her feet.

  A branch.

  Catherine startled hard. Her boot skidded on slick stone and the compass slipped from her hand. Before she could even curse properly, a figure in a dark brown cloak darted from behind the trees, hood up, face hidden. He snatched the compass off the ground and bolted.

  “Hey!” Catherine shouted.

  Barrel was already in motion, a blur of fur and fury. Catherine sprinted after him, heart hammering. Not from fear, not exactly, but from outrage.

  Thief.

  The chase didn’t last long. The cloaked figure cut left, tried to leap a root, and tripped hard. He hit the ground with a very undignified noise. Barrel pounced and pinned him immediately, forepaws planted on his chest, teeth bared in a warning that required no translation.

  Catherine arrived breathless and furious, planted herself in front of them, and held out her hand. “Give it back!”

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  The figure slowly raised his palms in surrender. Then, with exaggerated caution, he reached up and pulled his hood down.

  A boy’s face, too young for the exhaustion in his eyes. He had pale skin, shaggy black hair, red irises that caught the morning light like embers, and pointed ears.

  “My name’s Ivarr,” he said, voice stiff with pride even while being pinned by a dog. “And this compass is mine.”

  Catherine’s gaze flicked to the compass in his hand. “Convenient.”

  “It’s not convenient,” Ivarr snapped. “It’s catastrophic. I lost it yesterday.”

  “By accident?” Catherine said flatly.

  “Yes, by accident,” he insisted, then launched into the explanation as if speed could make it more believable. “I was by the waterfall eating an apple when your beast—”

  “Barrel,” Catherine corrected.

  “—Barrel came charging out of nowhere. I panicked and ran. A branch caught the string and snapped it right off my neck.”

  While explaining himself, his stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, betraying him with perfect timing.

  Catherine stared at him. He stared back, cheeks flushing with anger and hunger. Curiosity eventually won. She crouched, plucked an apple from her satchel, and sliced off a piece with her small knife. She held it out just beyond Barrel’s muzzle.

  “I’ll trade you,” she said. “One slice if you tell me what that compass is actually for, because it definitely isn’t pointing north.”

  Ivarr hesitated like a man offered gold and humiliation at the same time. Then his stomach growled again. His shoulders slumped. “Fine.”

  Barrel let him go, finally allowing him to sit. Catherine tossed him the slice, and he ate it like it might vanish if he blinked.

  “It’s a seeker,” he said between bites. “A compass meant to lead me to the Six Divine Artefacts.”

  Catherine’s eyes sharpened. “Six Divine Artefacts?”

  Ivarr nodded and, apparently, once he started talking, couldn’t stop himself from sounding important. “In the ancient past, the Emberkind—this continent’s first people—followed a figure known as the Saint of Embers. She carried six artefacts said to have come from the Six Primal Gods. After she died protecting the Emberkind’s ancestors from a great evil, they sealed each artefact away in six separate hidden places.”

  “And if you find them?” Catherine asked, too casually.

  Ivarr lifted his chin. “Whoever gathers all six is granted immense power, becoming a mighty sorcerer.”

  Catherine tilted her head. “So you’re on a quest to become a sorcerer.”

  “Exactly!” Ivarr said, brightening instantly. “The most powerful there is! Then I can finally achieve my dream and grow seven feet tall!”

  Catherine stared at him, deadpan. “Grow taller. Seriously.”

  Ivarr huffed like she was the unreasonable one. “I’m an adult, Miss—.”

  “Catherine,” she supplied.

  “I’m an adult, Miss Catherine,” he continued.

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Catherine’s eyebrow climbed.

  Ivarr scowled and jabbed a finger at his own chest. “My mana—my soul—was weak when I was born. I couldn’t draw enough power to grow properly, so I ended up looking like this.”

  Catherine looked him over again, then her gaze snagged on the pointed ears. “Are you an Alvarynn?”

  Ivarr shook his head, slightly offended. “Close, but not exactly. I’m Hraevnar.”

  Catherine blinked. “A… grave tar?”

  “No—” he snapped, voice cracking with frustration. “Not grave tar! Hraevnar! HRAEVNAR!”

  “Sorry,” Catherine said with an unapologetic little smile. “Never heard of it.”

  Ivarr, still cornered by the girl and her dog, and still hungry, sighed and continued anyway. “We’re related to the Alvarynn. Different practices. Different… history. We come from Svartalf.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “Svartalf? That’s far. I thought only monsters lived there.”

  Ivarr’s expression turned proud again. “A land where only the toughest survive.”

  He then rubbed his palms together, grin growing, an expression Catherine recognized all too well, because she wore it whenever she smelled opportunity.

  “And once I have the six artefacts,” he went on, “I’ll be the most powerful sorcerer too!”

  Catherine handed him another apple slice, partly as payment, partly because his stories sounded intriguing. By the time Ivarr finished chewing, Catherine had a plan. Simple, clean, and profitable.

  She stepped closer and held up the rest of her breakfast: apple, bread, a small wedge of cheese. “One last trade,” she said sweetly. “I’ll give you the rest of this if you let me hold the compass for a moment. Just a look.”

  Ivarr’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll run.”

  “I won’t,” Catherine lied, then followed it immediately with something true. “Even if I did, I can’t outrun you forever. And there’s only one town you can search. Where would I hide?”

  Ivarr hesitated, war between pride and hunger playing across his face.

  Catherine extended her hand, businesslike. “Deal.”

  After a beat, he took it.

  The moment their hands clasped, faint letters shimmered into existence in the air near Catherine’s bracelet in thin, luminous script.

  Your new task,

  Give your breakfast to Ivarr,

  and receive his compass as a reward.

  Catherine was too preoccupied with looking at Ivarr’s compass to notice. He didn’t see the words either. He was already grabbing the food like it was salvation.

  They exchanged items. He devoured the apple in seconds. Catherine lifted the compass, mesmerized, then felt a sudden heat bloom along her left wrist.

  The bracelet pulsed once, and the compass… melted into light.

  The needle unraveled first, dissolving into a thin thread that snapped toward her wrist. The etched gems flashed before bursting into motes that streamed into the bracelet.

  Catherine screamed.

  Ivarr spun toward her instantly, panic flashing. “What is it? Did something bite you?”

  He looked at her arm, and his eyes locked onto the now-silver bracelet. The same white stone rested on top, but six differently colored gems now studded the band.

  His face went slack.

  Then his eyes widened so much Catherine thought they might fall out.

  “Where—” he choked. “Where’s my compass?!”

  Catherine pointed at her wrist, shaking. “My bracelet. It— it absorbed it!”

  Ivarr’s eye twitched, then both hands flew up into his hair.

  “NOOO!” he screamed, voice echoing off the trees.

  He lurched forward, furious and frantic. “Give it back! Give it back now!”

  Barrel stepped between them, barking, teeth bared.

  “I—I don’t know how!” Catherine blurted, genuinely horrified now.

  Ivarr staggered back to where he’d fallen, snatched up a staff from the ground, and leveled it at her like a threat. The red crystal embedded near its head flickered, weak, dim, like a coal close to going out.

  “Give it back,” he hissed, “or I’ll fire.”

  “I can’t!” Catherine protested. “I don’t know how—”

  “That does it!”

  He raised the staff higher and shouted, “Fire within me, I summon you!”

  Catherine threw her arms up and flinched.

  Nothing happened.

  She lowered her arms slowly and looked at him. “What was that supposed to do?”

  Ivarr snarled and repeated the incantation. Again. Then again. Still nothing. He began poking the red crystal on the staff with mounting desperation.

  Catherine, despite everything, couldn’t help getting slightly annoyed. “You can’t use magic? Also, why are you chanting? Don’t you have staves with the incantations engraved so you don’t have to say them?”

  “Stay there,” Ivarr snapped, turning to rummage through his pack, “and I’ll show you—”

  Catherine didn’t move.

  Instead, she lifted her left hand slowly, letting the combat ring catch the light. Her posture straightened.

  Ivarr froze mid-motion.

  Then Catherine spoke, crisp and deliberate, as if she’d been waiting for an excuse.

  “Flames within thyself,” she said, “I call upon thee.”

  A sphere of fire blossomed into existence before her palm, bright and scorching, and launched forward.

  It didn’t strike Ivarr. It flew past him close enough to singe the edge of his hood, then slammed into a rock behind him and burst into a spray of sparks. His head turned toward the smoking stone, then back at Catherine.

  “How did you—” he whispered.

  Catherine smiled like she’d just won a game. “You said the enchantment wrong,” she said, cutting him off.

  Ivarr’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. This can’t be happening.

  “And I believe,” Catherine added, glancing at her bracelet, at the new, faintly pulsing shimmer nested within its gems, “this is my compass now.”