I lifted my eyes only long enough to meet his. The tall one with the white locks stood like a pillar among them, his gaze fixed sharp on me as if he’d already weighed and determined the whole of what I was. His voice lingered in the air, quiet but certain, the word heavy enough to settle in my chest. Aberration.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t so much as blink. My hand stayed pressed to the gelding’s neck, fingers combing through his damp mane as if I could anchor both of us there in the dirt. His breath came slow and shallow, a fragile rhythm I clung to while the strangers watched. I whispered to him alone, promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, but gave anyway.
Around us, the battlefield stilled into uneasy silence. The strangers moved among the fallen with the surety of people long accustomed to killing. They cleaned their blades and shook their cloaks free of the ash. Yet more than one pair of eyes slid back to me, quiet and lingering. Not cruel or mocking, just watching, waiting. Being at the center of their attention pressed harder than their abrupt arrival.
I focused on the horse, on the steady rise and fall of his sides, the warmth beneath my palm, the faint flicker of life that still answered mine. It was easier than meeting their eyes. Easier than letting myself see how they looked at me now. They had seen what I was. The Ardor that had burned through men. The Healing that had closed mortal wounds. Both.
Aberration. The word spun again in my skull, jagged as a brand. They knew, all of them. And there was no taking it back. If they judged me a danger, or decided I was worth more dead than living, there would be no running, not now. Not with my strength hollowed out and my blood still soaking into the dirt.
So I kept my head bowed and my voice low, speaking only to my horse, stroking him like he was the only one who mattered.
Bootsteps shifted closer through the dirt until they stopped a few paces off. I didn’t look up. My hand stayed on the gelding, stroking slow, as if the rhythm alone could keep me from shattering.
“You hurt… miss?” he asked, voice even.
My throat worked before sound came. “Anna,” I said, the name catching rough before I steadied it. “My name is Anna.”
When I looked at him, something flickered behind his eyes, quick and unreadable. Then it was gone. He inclined his head once. “Darius. We heard the sound of fighting. Then we saw the light. By the time we found you, they had you surrounded.” He didn’t say more than needed, didn’t ask what I was doing there alone. Just gave the truth and left space for mine.
Before I could shape an answer, another voice slipped in. The woman with the soot streaked across her cheek, her braid swinging as she stepped closer. She crouched a little, eyes kind though still sharp from the fight. “She was attacked,” she said simply, her gaze flicking back toward Darius. “She needs rest.”
Darius’s attention lingered on me, as if he weighed the words against the sight of me, blood still dripping from my torn hand, the hollow ache of Casting still clinging to my skin. At last, he gave a short decisive nod. “We were about to camp not far from here. You’ll rest there.” His tone left no room for argument.
He turned away then, moving among his people, clasping shoulders, checking wounds, already folding back into the rhythm of command.
Fira exhaled, shaking her head as though used to his blunt edges. “Don’t mind him,” she said, softer now as her gaze turned to me. “He means well. Just doesn’t bother softening it. You’re safe with us, Anna. You can rest.” Her hand brushed my arm, light but steady. “Fira’s my name,” she added. “We’re Rangers. The Greywatch Brotherhood. Not Order.”
She said it like no explanation was needed, like I would know the distinction between the two. “The villages pay us to keep the roads clear, drive raiders back before they reach their homes. That’s the work we take on.” Her mouth tugged faintly, like she’d said the words a hundred times before to strangers who didn’t quite believe them.
The word rang in me, both familiar and foreign. I had heard it before, tossed about by boys back home who brandished sticks as swords and shouted that they’d be Rangers one day. But that was the extent of it. None had ever come near our village, not when it was raided, not when slavers came. If Rangers walked our borders, perhaps we would have been spared.
From behind her, the tall man with the braided beard barked a laugh. “And if the coin’s decent, we keep merchants from pissin’ themselves every time a squirrel twitches. Don’t let her fool you into thinkin’ its some noble tale.”
Fira didn’t so much as glance back. “Ignore him,” she said. “He thinks cynicism makes him charming.”
Between the three of them, they couldn’t have seemed more different. One carved from stone, another a steady presence, the last nothing but biting edges. I couldn’t decide which face belonged to the Brotherhood. Maybe they all did.
I pushed myself upright, legs trembling from more than just exhaustion. The gelding stirred under my touch, ears flicking as if uncertain whether to rise. With a steady pull and whispered promise, I coaxed him to his feet. He staggered once, favoring his wounded side, but held steady, his eyes finding mine as though to ask if I meant it.
Fira rose with me, brushing dirt from her hands. “Does he have a name?” she asked, tilting her head toward the gelding.
I shook my head. “No.”
Her mouth softened into a smile. “Then he’s lucky, nameless or not. Not many beasts would’ve survived wounds like that. It’s a good thing he had you.”
I huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Bad luck he has me, is more like it. My last horse was stolen. I’ve got a talent for bad luck.”
Fira arched a brow, the corner of her mouth quirking as though she wasn’t sure if I was joking. “Maybe. But I’ve seen men with half your will let their mounts die under them. Doesn’t sound like bad luck to me.”
Her words lingered as we started through the trees, the gelding moving slow and uncertain between us. The forest hushed around our steps, broken only by the creak of leather and the faint rasp of the horse’s breath.
Ahead, voices carried back through the trees, with low ribbing laughter.
“Cleanest kill? You? I counted three swings before his head stayed down. Cleanest kill, my ass.”
“If carving a man like firewood counts as clean, then sure.”
Another groaned. “Patrol again come mornin’, mark my words. Always our lot to tramp mud while the rest warm their arses by the fire.”
Their laughter rolled easy and rough at once, the kind of talk between people too familiar with killing to treat it heavy. I faltered a step, the sound pulling strange in me.
Not far off, the others had begun to settle in a small clearing, their cloaks casting dark shapes against the pale of evening. Horses shifted, hobbled to graze along the edge. The smell of churned soil and smoke still lingered, but here the air felt steadier, the space wide enough to breathe.
One of the men broke from the group as we entered, younger than the rest and near my own age, though already bearing the hard edges of the road. A waterskin swung from his hand, the leather dark with damp. He held it out to me with a quick grin. “Here,” he said. “You look like you could use it. If you need anything else, just ask.”
I hesitated, then took it, the water cool against my lips. Before I could thank him, he was already moving back toward the fire, where laughter cracked against the night.
Fira touched my arm drawing my gaze. “Newest among us,” she murmured, watching him go. “He’s a good lad.”
She stepped ahead then, guiding me in. “Come on. Rest first. We’ll talk later.”
The Rangers were already lively by the time I led the gelding into their clearing. Voices overlapped, quick and loud, talk of blades finding throats and of a bandit’s face when fire caught his cloak. They laughed in bursts, some cruel, some easy, the kind of mirth that came when men and women were too used to killing to stay quiet afterward.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of horse and smoke. Their mounts shifted restlessly, stamping the ground and tugging at the hobbles while steam curled from their flanks. The tang of leather and sweat clung to them, mixing with the sharper scent of pine pitch snapping in the fire. Someone had skewered strips of meat over the flames, and the fat hissed as it dripped, sending up a smoke rich enough to make my stomach twist with want.
I hitched the gelding beside their mounts, the lot of them restless but well-kept. Their saddles were worn smooth from long roads, bridles mended with careful hands. He lowered his head at once, pulling at the sparse grass, though his legs still trembled when the others jostled close. I lingered a moment, smoothing his mane, before turning toward the fire.
When I finally sank down near the fire, its warmth wrapped around me, chasing the ache from my bones. Sparks leapt upward, the light catching on steel buckles and bright eyes. The voices carried over the crackle, a rhythm of sound that filled the clearing until it felt alive with them.
Their talking swelled around me, rough and unrestrained. One of them, a wiry man with a scar splitting his brow, spoke with his hands as much as his mouth, relishing in his tale of how a bandit’s head “burst like a melon” under his strike. The others groaned and laughed, clearly used to his brand of humor.
Another sat back on his elbows, hair cropped close, eyes always watching the tree line even while he chuckled at their banter. He laughed softer, as though he was only half present, but I recognized the habit, vigilance, the same way Art never seemed to stop assessing shadows. It unsettled me to see it echoed here.
Pain throbbed through my hand, a constant reminder that I was still bleeding in front of them. Only, when I glanced down, the flow had already slowed, dark streaks drying against my skin. There was no point pretending anymore, they had seen me cast, seen enough to know what I could do. To sit here, wounded and silent, would only make me look weaker than I already did. Enervating felt less likely now. Maybe the training with Art had helped after all.
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I drew a steadying breath and focused my Healing into my bad hand palm-up. Light bloomed, flowing into the torn flesh where the arrow had pinned me. Skin knit, blood dried, the ache dulled to nothing. When the glow faded, only a faint scar traced the line where wood and steel had torn through me.
Silence settled in its wake. Eyes shifted toward me, some wide, some unreadable. Then one of the men leaned forward from across the flames. It was the large man with the braided beard, thick, coarse and unkempt, eyes bright with mischief even after battle. He grinned at me as though the fight hadn’t cost him a thing. “Think that Healin’ of yours could clear up the itch I picked up in Ketterdam?”
A few snorts rose around the circle. Fira shot him a look. “There’s not enough Healing in the world to fix you, Lioren.”
He held up his hands, grinning wider. “What? Maybe it’ll take care of the pox my last girl gave me. It itches somethin’ fierce.”
Laughter rang loud and hard, rolling around the fire until even I felt it tugging at me. The sound rose up my throat before I could stop it, rough but real, and for a moment I laughed with them, the sting in my chest easing just a little in the glow of their fire.
As laughter rolled around the fire at Lioren’s vulgar joke, I found myself remembering those boys’ games. They had shouted proudly of keeping roads safe and slaying beasts at the edge of the wilds. But the people before me were nothing like the noble figures I’d imagined. They laughed about death as if it were supper talk, trading grisly details as easily as coin.
As the laughter ebbed, I studied them in the firelight. Lioren still smirked into his drink, clearly pleased with himself, while the woman called Fira leaned close to mutter something sharp that made him chuckle all the harder.
It wasn’t until her hood slipped back that I realized the one nearest the fire wasn’t a man at all. Dark hair tumbled loose around features too fine to mistake now. She was younger than the others, her smile swift and fleeting when she caught me staring. Pretty, though the cloak had hidden her well enough among them.
They weren’t kind, not in the ways I’d once known kindness. But they were alive, bound tight by something more than cloaks and steel. Even in their ruthlessness there was ease.
The sound of hooves pulled my gaze to the trees. Darius returned at last, another man riding with him, the last of their company. They dismounted together, the newcomer handing off his reins before dropping onto a log near the fire. He said something low that drew a chuckle from Fira, and though Darius didn’t answer in words, the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth passed for approval.
I had little time to dwell on it before Darius straightened, sheathing his blade. His presence drew the others quieter without a word. Fira came with him, her braid swinging, her gaze softer than his but no less intent. Together they crossed to where I sat.
He stopped before me, hands at his sides, eyes steady as if he could strip the truth bare by staring long enough. But when he spoke, his tone carried no sharpness, only plain intent. “Where are you headed?”
I hesitated, then drew a breath. “I’m looking for my husband. He was conscripted. Last I heard, he was bound for Orvain.”
The circle shifted, some of the Rangers glancing at one another over the flames. It was Fira who answered first, her voice low with a kind of weary sympathy. “Conscripted… you may be walking a long way to catch him. The war eats folk faster than the land does.”
Darius’s gaze fixed sharper on me. He didn’t soften it. “Conscripted? Was he a Caster?”
I hesitated only a moment before nodding. “He was a Fire Caster.”
A flicker moved through the group, too quick to name. Interest, perhaps, or the kind of understanding that needed no words. Darius studied me a moment longer, then gave a short nod, as if that piece fit something in his mind.
Fira leaned in a little, her eyes catching on the firelight, the corner of her mouth quirking. “And is he an Aberration like you?”
The question caught me off guard, but the tugging at her lips gave it away for what it was. I managed a small shake of my head. “No. Just Fire.”
Fira chuckled, satisfied enough, and leaned back. “Good. One of you is trouble enough.”
A man across the flames, the one with the scar splitting his brow, snorted into his cup. “Truth is, you’re lucky they didn’t drag you off the moment they saw you cast. Aberration like you? The army would snatch you quicker than coin off a tavern table.”
Another Ranger grunted in agreement. “Conscriptors don’t pass up strength. Not these days. They’d march you to the front and bleed you dry before the year was out.”
The words needled deep, sharp because I knew they were true. I drew a breath, steadying it against the prickle in my chest. “They didn’t know,” I said at last, voice low but even. “I never showed them. My husband…” The word caught, but I forced it through. “He stepped forward. Said he’d serve. A Fire Caster. Strong. Strong enough that they were satisfied to leave the rest of the village alone.”
Silence stretched around the fire, the Rangers watching me as though determining each word, maybe even weighing how I could have let him take my place. Fira’s eyes lingered the longest, softer than the others, but still sharp with questions she didn’t ask.
She flicked a twig into the flames, the fire snapping as if to cut the silence for me. “Sixteen was when I first burned my eyebrows off,” she said lightly, her grin tugging. “Took months before I learned how not to set myself alight.” The ripple of laughter that followed eased the weight pressing on my chest.
Then her gaze slid back to me, curiosity still there but gentler now. “What about you?” she asked. “When did you first learn? Healing like that doesn’t come by chance.”
I shifted on the log, fingers brushing over the faint scar in my palm. “Sixteen,” I said quietly. “That’s when I first learned Healing.” My gaze dipped toward the fire, the words catching in my throat before I added, “Ardor… only a few months ago.”
Her brows lifted, genuine surprise flickering there. “Only months?” She gave a low whistle and shook her head. “You Cast as if you’ve carried it for years. Most would still be fumbling, not lancing men through the chest.”
Heat prickled up my neck, though whether from her praise or the fire I couldn’t say.
“You’re talented,” she said, her tone warm. Then she leaned back with a faint grin, the firelight catching on her braid. “Though I still say my eyebrows had it worse.”
A ripple of chuckles went around the circle at that, the kind that carried no edge. Fira’s eyes lingered on me a moment longer, curiosity still there, but softer now, as though she meant to draw me in rather than pin me down.
Bootsteps scuffed against the dirt, and Darius lowered himself onto the log beside her. The firelight cut across the sharp planes of his face, softening them only a little. “Don’t let her fool you,” he said, voice steady but carrying just enough warmth to edge the words. “She’s one of the finest Fire Casters I’ve seen. Learned control the hard way, but there’s none quicker now.”
Fira gave a small shake of her head, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re making me sound better than I am.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer, something unspoken flickering there before he turned back to me. The weight in his stare eased, less of a commander’s gauge and more of a man trying, at least for the moment, not to loom so heavily.
“The road to Orvain is still days out,” he said, the words plain but not unkind. “Do you know the path he took to get there?”
I wet my lips, fingers curling against my knee. “I wasn’t far behind him,” I admitted. “But now… now I may have lost that gap.”
Something shifted in his expression. The faintest tilt at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as quick as it came. “Then you’ll find it again,” he said. Not a promise, just a certainty he offered as though it were enough.
Before I could answer, the younger woman across the fire straightened, dark hair loose around her shoulders, catching the light in long strands that gleamed like ink. Her smile was quick and easy, her eyes holding a kind of frankness that set her apart from the others. “She won’t have to find it alone,” she said. “We’re already bound that way.”
A few of the Rangers murmured in agreement. One of the men gave a short, approving nod. “True enough. The village going towards Orvain still owes us our due. Best we collect before winter swallows the road.”
All eyes turned toward Darius. He regarded them a long moment, then inclined his head once. “We’ll see you as far as that village. But no farther.” His voice was calm, decisive. When he looked back at me, though, there was a flicker of something softer. “The roads beyond belong to the Order. We don’t cross into their territory unless we must.”
The word clung heavy. I shifted on the log, unease crawling beneath my skin. “You had mentioned the Order before,” I said at last, my voice low. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The fire popped, sending a ribbon of smoke spiraling upward. My question seemed to hang there with it, and for a moment, no one answered.
Then Darius spoke first, his tone level, as though contemplating each word. “The Order serves the High Lords and Governors. Their oaths bind them to crowns and coin, not to the land. They’re paid from the coffers of cities, and so their loyalty lies there. They do their duty well enough, but it’s duty bent to politics.”
Across the flames, the young woman with the dark hair leaned in, her voice steadier than her years suggested. “The Brotherhood’s different. We’re bound to each other first, to the oath we swore to Darius, and to the villages that keep us. The small folk don’t have crowns to guard them, so we take their coin and keep their roads safe. Raiders, bandits, beasts – the things that would bleed them dry before the lords ever noticed.”
Lioren leaned forward, cup sloshing as he jabbed it toward the fire. “The Order prances about with clean boots, polished steel, and their noses up some Lord’s arse. Us? We’re knee-deep in mud and shit, bleedin’ raiders open while farmers haggle over whether two chickens and piss-poor ale counts as fair pay.”
A ripple of laughter broke around the circle. One of the scarred men barked loud enough to draw the horses’ ears, while another clapped Lioren on the shoulder hard enough to nearly spill his drink.
“Careful,” the younger woman with the dark hair said dryly, a smile tugging as she stirred the fire with a stick. “If you insult the ale again, the villages might stop offering it.”
“They’d be doing us a favor,” another muttered, the laughter rolled again. Even Darius’s mouth tugged faint at the corner, though he shook his head like a man long resigned to Lioren’s tongue.
One of the scarred men shook his head, voice dry. “Don’t let him fool you. We’re mercenaries aye, but not without tether. Brotherhood means kin, even if it’s bought with blood and coin. We don’t bow, but we don’t break from each other either.”
Fira’s gaze found mine again, softer through the firelight. “The Order walks where law sends them. The Brotherhood walks where folk can’t stand alone. That’s the difference between the two.”
Silence followed Fira’s words, broken only by the hiss of fat dripping into the fire. Then one of the men across the flames grinned at me, the scar tugging hard at his brow. “Light and Healing both, and a blade besides. Saints’ balls, you could near pass for one of us. Ever thought of joining a Brotherhood?”
The chuckles that rolled around the circle told me he hadn’t meant it serious, but the spark of truth in it still twisted in my chest.
“Don’t be a twit,” Fira cut in, flicking a twig at him. “She’s looking for her husband, not a new family to swear herself to.”
The man only shrugged, unrepentant. “First Light Caster I’ve ever seen. First Aberration too, if I’m being honest.”
My mouth worked before I could stop it. “Are all Rangers Casters?”
That quieted the mirth some. Darius answered first, his tone carrying the weight of command even in so few words. “Yes. It’s a requirement. Steel alone doesn’t hold the borders.”
“Aye,” another added with a wry grin. “Any farmer’s son can swing a sword. Takes more than sharp steel to stand a night against raiders with Fire at their backs.”
“Or against the Order, if it came to that,” someone muttered, though softer, as though not meant for me to hear.
The fire burned lower, settling into a steady glow that painted their cloaks in amber. Conversation drifted into smaller threads, laughter giving way to muttered boasts and half-told tales. I let their voices blur, the weight of the day pressing heavy behind my eyes.
Fira rose at last, brushing dirt from her hands. Darius stood with her, their shadows long against the tent canvas. They moved together without a word, steps in rhythm born of long habit. When the flap closed behind them, silence rippled through the circle for a beat.
Lioren caught my eye across the flames, one brow climbing as his grin curved wicked. “Careful where you bed down, love,” he drawled. “Those two’ll keep you up half the night once they get started.”
A couple of the others groaned and laughed.
A gust flicked across the fire, sudden and intense enough to scatter spark toward him. He threw up a hand, laughing as he swatted the embers. “Saints’ arses, can’t you take a joke?” he barked, still grinning wide.
The others chuckled, some shaking their heads, the camaraderie winding down with the night. Heat prickled across my face, though I ducked my head quick enough to make it seem the fire alone was to blame. Their laughter ebbed to murmurs as the crackle of flame filled the silence.
Tomorrow the road would test me again. For one night, though, the fire and the company held the dark at bay.
The Hallow.
It's not a rewrite and not a new story. It's just a polished, tightened, and stronger beginning that better matches the tone and quality of the later chapters.