Celeste

  I woke to a headache that felt like a hammer behind my eyes. Wonderful.

  With a groan, I sat up, pressed my palm to my temple, and let Healing flare. Warmth spilled through me, and the ache vanished in seconds. Just like that. I stared at my hand, flexing my fingers. If only everything else were that easy.

  The other bed was empty, the blanket folded neatly at its foot. Typical. Art was already gone, probably off scouring for supplies or answers he’d never share.

  I let myself fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling beams above. The ruby necklace pressed cool against my skin, heavy where it rested at my collarbone. I touched it absently, wishing the memory of last night could vanish as easily as the hangover had.

  But I pushed it aside. I’d survived worse. I’d keep moving, with or without his answers.

  I pushed myself up again and set to work. The basin water was cold, but it cleared the last of the fog as I washed. My clothes smelled faintly of ale, but I pulled them on anyway, lacing them tight. By the time the shutters let in a full strip of daylight, I had gathered our things, packed what little we carried, and set both satchels neatly by the door.

  The latch clicked not long after, and Art stepped in as if the night before hadn’t happened at all. A parcel of bread and cheese was tucked under his arm, his expression steady and unreadable.

  “You’re up,” he said simply, setting the food on the table. “Good. We’ll eat, then head out before the road fills.”

  No mention of the tavern. No mention of the dance or the kiss. His voice was calm, practiced, too even.

  I only nodded, tightening the strap on my satchel. Two could play at that.

  We ate without ceremony, the bread coarse but filling, the cheese sharp on my tongue. Neither of us said much, but the silence wasn’t strained. It was practiced, deliberate, like slipping into a cloak we both knew too well.

  When the plates were cleared, Art gathered the parcels, and we made our way down through the busy common room. No one spared us more than a glance; by the time we reached the stables, the noise of Greyfen was already fading behind us.

  Our horses stamped impatiently, their breath fogging in the cool air. I ran a hand along my mare’s neck, the simple rhythm settling me more than the food had. Art checked the tack with his usual care, then swung into the saddle.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded, pulling my hood up against the wind. The ruby settled warm against my skin as I mounted, its weight a reminder I tried not to think about.

  We struck out from the town with the morning light at our backs, the road stretching long and quiet ahead.

  The road stretched long and quiet ahead, the ruts deep from wagon wheels, the trees thinning to our right where the wind combed through tall grass. My mare’s gait was steady enough that I let the reins rest loose in my hand, the ruby at my throat tapping lightly against my collarbone with each step.

  Art rode a pace ahead, then slowed until we were side by side. He glanced at me, then at the space between our horses. “You should try casting while we move.”

  I blinked at him. “While riding?”

  He nodded, calm as ever. “If you can’t keep your balance on a horse and keep your focus at the same time, you’ll lose both when it matters. Start small, light, if that’s easier. Just hold it steady.”

  I groaned, letting my head fall back. “Can’t we just ride without turning everything into a lesson?”

  He nodded slowly, but he didn’t argue. “Suppose we can.” He guided his horse ahead a few steps, his expression unreadable.

  I bit back a smile, turning my gaze to the road. He wasn’t wrong, but today, I didn’t feel like letting him be right either.

  The silence stretched, filled only by the steady thud of hooves and the creak of leather.

  Dust rose ahead, wagons, oxen, riders strung out in a loose line moving the opposite direction. A small caravan. I pulled my hood over.

  Art slowed us to let them pass, offering a nod to the lead rider. The man returned it, his eyes flicking briefly to me before he urged his horse on. Children peered out the back of one wagon, wide-eyed, while a pair of guards at the tail raised their hands in casual salute.

  “Afternoon,” one called.

  Art’s reply was clipped. “Safe roads.”

  We moved past them without pause, the dust settling into our wake. No one lingered, no questions asked. Just travelers passing, carrying on with their lives.

  I kept my gaze forward, jaw tight. To them, I was just another face hidden in the crowd. To Art, I was someone who needed hiding.

  Dust from the caravan still clung in the air when the fork came into view. A weathered post half-leaning under the weight of two signs. One pointed south, etched with letters I didn’t need to read to know where it led. The other angled northwest, toward a smaller name I didn’t recognize. Asholt.

  Art slowed his horse. “We’ll cut through this town.”

  I blinked at him. “I thought you said Rodin was only a few days ride.”

  “It is. But I’d rather not reach the walls worn thin.” His tone left no room for debate, though he wasn’t looking at me when he said it.

  So I nodded, pulling my hood over again as we turned onto the northwest road.

  The town came into view before long, nestled in the dip of a shallow valley. The roofs clustered tight as though bracing against the wind. Smaller than Greyfen, quieter too, but still alive with the rhythm of people moving about. A few stalls remained open in the square, though most merchants were already shuttering for the night. A boy darted between them with a bundle of kindling, a woman sweeping the stone step in front of her door.

  It smelled of bread, woodsmoke, and damp earth.

  Art guided us past the last of the market stalls, his gaze sweeping the square with that same sharpness he never set down. But no one looked twice at us. No bounties, no whispers. Just another evening in another town.

  He dismounted at the inn’s post and handed off his reins to a waiting stablehand. I slid down after him, my legs stiff from the road, the ruby thudding lightly against my chest as if reminding me it was still there.

  The stablehand led our horses away, and Art paused only long enough to run a hand down the straps of his satchel, eyes already scanning the square. Always measuring, always watching.

  I lingered at the inn’s steps, breathing in the night air. Asholt felt different from Greyfen, smaller, steadier. There was no wild laughter spilling from every doorway, no music rising above the rooftops. Just the muted thrum of people settling into their lives, a rhythm I didn’t belong to.

  “We’ll take a room,” Art said, nodding toward the inn.

  I crossed my arms. “You can. I want to look around first.”

  His eyes flicked to me, narrowing slightly. He didn’t argue, not out loud, but the way he fell into step a pace behind told me I wouldn’t be left to wander alone.

  The square opened ahead of us, lanterns strung from post to post, their glow soft against the cobbles. A row of rough tables had been set near the fountain, mugs clutched in calloused hands, bowls steaming with stew. Laughter rose from one corner when a fiddler played a quick, crooked tune, the bowstrings squealing at the edges but no one seemed to mind.

  I slowed, letting the hum of it wash over me. Not a festival like Greyfen’s, but enough to feel like celebration. My gaze caught on a painted banner stretched between two poles, its lettering faded but legible: Festival of the First Frost.

  It fit. The wind was sharper, the air already carrying the bite of winter. The townsfolk had gathered to face it with drink and song, as though the cold itself could be warded off by cheer.

  Voices rose and fell like waves against the edges of the lantern light. Tables clustered in uneven lines, their benches worn smooth by years of use. Smoke from the spits curled thick and savory, and somewhere near the fountain, a fiddler scraped at tune sharp enough to set a few boots stomping.

  Art came back from the ale casks with two mugs in hand. He didn’t look at me as he set them down on a bench near the edge of the crowd, just lowered himself with the same measured calm he carried everywhere. One mug he lifted. The other he left waiting, its foam spilling faintly over the rim.

  I lingered only a hearbeat before turning away, sliding onto a bench of my own across the square. My hood slipped back as I sat, the ruby tapping against my collarbone in quiet rhythm with my pulse. From here, I could feel the noise pressing closer, voices bleeding into one another until they blurred.

  A barmaid passed not long after, balancing a tray heavy with mugs. She paused when she saw me, head tilting as if to mark the stranger among the crowd. “Ale?” she offered, her smile easy, practiced.

  I shook my head at first, then caught the cool weight of Art’s gaze across the square. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t touched the second mug. Just watching, silent as ever.

  My chin lifted a fraction. “Yes,” I said, reaching for the mug she offered.

  The barmaid’s smile widened. “On the house, sweetie. Happy festival night.” She moved on before I could answer, leaving the froth cold against my fingers.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  I took a slow sip. The bite of it wasn’t unpleasant. Stronger than Greyfen’s, though. Sharper.

  The bench creaked a while later as someone else sat down beside me.

  “Well now,” a voice said, rough with drink but softened by a grin. I turned to find a broad-shouldered man settling in, two ales clutched in his hands. His hair was sun-bleached, his shirt unlaced at the collar, and he smelled faintly of hay and ale.

  “Didn’t think Asholt had luck enough to see a face this fine tonight.” He set one mug on the table between us and slid it toward me. “What do you say?”

  I raised a brow. “That depends. What am I saying yes to?”

  He chuckled, low and easy, before lifting his own mug for a long pull. When he came up for air, foam streaked his lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Henry,” he said easily, grin tugging wide as though we’d known each other longer than a breath. “AurenVale’s got me posted here. Stationed, keeping the roads clear while the real fighting drags on elsewhere. Not much glory in keeping sheep safe, but it pays the same as bleeding on some field. And at least Asholt knows how to keep a man in ale.”

  The mug sat between us, froth spilling faintly over the side. He nudged it closer with two fingers, eyes bright under the lamplight. “So what do you say? Share a drink with me, festival girl?”

  I traced the rim of my own ale, letting the sharp bite of it linger on my tongue before setting it down again. Across the square, Art’s figure was still visible through the crowd, unmoving at his own bench. His second mug sat untouched, froth long since dulled.

  The mug Henry shoved toward me still sloshed, froth dripping down the side. His grin lingered, bold as if I’d already agreed.

  I let my fingers brush the rim but I didn’t lift it. “Generous,” I said lightly, “but I don’t drink from strangers.”

  His brows lifted in mock offense, mouth already opening to argue.

  Before he could, a barmaid drifted past with a tray of fresh ales. I raised a hand, and she slid one toward me without breaking stride. The froth was cold against my fingers, the weight familiar.

  I lifted it in a small toast, letting the lanternlight catch on the rim. “I don’t drink from strangers,” I added, meeting his gaze over the mug. “But I’ll drink with them. Anna.”

  The name slipped from my lips smooth as the lie I’d practiced too many times now.

  Henry barked a laugh and swept his own ale back toward himself. “Fair enough.” He tipped it back in a long pull, foam running down his chin. The second mug still waited by his elbow, patient as a promise.

  Henry tipped back the last of his mug and set it down with a thud. “So – Anna was it? Don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Passing through?”

  “Something like that.” I took another sip of my own ale, cool foam brushing my lip.

  He leaned in, elbows on the table, his grin easy. “Well, Asholt’s not much, but it’s got good ale and a soldier or two to keep the road clear. Good enough for a festival, anyway. And good enough company, if I say so myself.”

  I tilted my head, studying him. “Confident, aren’t you?”

  “Earned it.” He brushed the thumb across the badge at his shoulder, more gesture than proof. “AurenVale says guard the roads, so I guard the roads. Not much to it. But I figure the trick’s knowing where to sit once the work’s done.” His grin tilted, eyes glinting as though he meant this bench and nowhere else.

  I lifted my mug, arching a brow. “And if I prefer quiet company?”

  His grin widened, shameless. “Then I’ll just have to convince you I can be quiet too.”

  I snorted softly into my ale. “You’re already failing at that.”

  He laughed, loud enough to run a few heads nearby. “Fair. But you’re still sitting here.”

  I drained the last of my mug and rose, the wood creaking beneath me. “Not for long,” I said, then tipped the empty cup in his direction. “Your turn. I’ll get this one.”

  His brows lifted in pleased surprise. “Now that’s a proper festival spirit.” He pushed his mug across the table without hesitation.

  The crowd pressed thicker near the fountain where the casks were lined, lanterns hung low above the barrels. A man stood behind them, apron stained, arms like corded rope from years of hefting more than ale. He traded empty mugs for coins with quick efficiency, tapping the spigot and sliding foam-topped drinks across without a word wasted.

  I shouldered in, set both mugs on the table, and fished a coin from the pouch Art had handed me days ago. The man gave me a curt nod and pulled the lever, amber froth spilling until the mugs brimmed.

  I reached to take them, only to find Art already there, one hand steadying a mug before it could topple. His voice was quiet enough that it threaded beneath the din.

  “He’s not worth your time.”

  The weight of his words sank sharper than the ale’s bite. I tightened my grip on the mug’s handle, met his gaze head-on. “You didn’t seem to care until he was.”

  For a moment, the square fell away. The noise, the heat of bodies, even the glow of lanterns. Just his eyes on mine, unreadable as ever.

  “Be careful,” he said at last, steady as stone. Then he released the mug, turned, and slipped back through the crowd, vanishing into the darker edge of the square.

  I stood a moment longer, the two brimming ales heavy in my hands, the pulse louder than the fiddler’s tune. Then the cask man barked at the next in line, and I forced myself to step aside.

  Henry looked up as I wove back through the crowd, mugs in hand. His grin spread wide, and he swept an arm across the table with theatrical flourish.

  “Well, look at that. Thought you’d ditched me.”

  Two fresh ales already sat in front of him, foam still spilling over their rims. He pushed them closer with his knuckles, smug. “Lucky for you, I know how to keep a seat warm. And since you went through all that trouble–” his eyes flicked to the mugs I carried “looks like you get to drink both.”

  I set the ales down, the wood damp beneath my palms. “Generous,” I said, taking a slow sip from one, “but I think you’re falling behind.”

  He barked a laugh, snatching up one of his own and draining half in a gulp. “Behind? I’m winning. You’ve got catching up to do.”

  I swirled the ale in my mug, watching the foam collapse in lazy circles. Two in front of him, two fresh in front of me. He’d made sure of it. A man could talk about roads and duty all he wanted, but this wasn’t about conversation, it was about drink. About seeing how many it would take to tilt me sideways.

  I lifted the mug again, letting the edge brush my lip without drinking. My gaze stayed level with his. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t keep up.”

  His grin widened, pleased with the challenge. “Now that sounds like fighting words.”

  Henry leaned back, balancing his mug on one knee, the foam already gone. “So, Anna.” He said my name like he was tasting it. “Where’s a girl like you come from? Not Asholt, that much I can tell. You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen more road than hearth.”

  I traced a finger along the rim of my mug. “Maybe I have.”

  “Caravan girl?” His grin crooked. “Merchant’s daughter? Run off from some rich house with your jewels tucked under your cloak?”

  The guesses came too close. My smile didn’t reach my eyes. “You’ve a good imagination.”

  “Imagination, sure.” He tapped his temple. “But I’ve an eye for people. And you…” He leaned in, bold, searching my face with that windburnt squint. “You’ve got a story. I can tell.”

  I took a long drink to give myself time. The ale was sharper, bitter on my tongue, but it filled the pause when words wouldn’t.

  What could I say? That I’d been a prisoner, that my name sat on a bounty slip, that every road I walked on shadowed by the ones who wanted me back? That the ruby against my collarbone might as well have been a brand?

  My throat tightened. “Everyone’s got a story,” I said at last. “Doesn’t mean it needs telling.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a hard one to pin down.”

  I forced a smile, though my chest felt hollow. With Art, the silence had never felt like this. Heavy, brittle, every word weighed against what might slip free. With him, it wasn’t easy, but it was safer. He didn’t pry, he just watched, and listened. And somehow that made speaking easier than this man’s endless prodding ever could.

  Henry downed another swallow, unbothered. “That’s alright. I like a challenge.”

  He leaned back, shoulders broad against the lantern glow. “Been two years here in Asholt. Roads are quiet now, but I’ve had my share of skirmishes. Bandits mostly.” He smirked, proud of the memory.

  “Steels’ one thing, but most don’t expect a caster keeping watch in a backwater like this. Wind’s quick. Faster than steel, if you know how to use it.” He lifted his empty mug and with a sharp flick of his wrist sent a lazy current across the rim. The foam shivered, sloshing against the sides as if something unseen had nudged it.

  My brows rose despite myself.

  He caught it, grinning wider. “Not much glory in guarding sheep and farmers, like I said. But when the air moves at your call, people think twice before drawing steel. That’s enough to keep the roads safe.”

  I set my own mug down carefully. “Or to keep the tavern entertained.”

  He laughed, head tipping back. “That too.”

  His arm brushed mine once, then again, until it stayed there, his elbow pressed too close against my sleeve. His hand lingered on my forearm, warm and heavy. I started to shift it off, but before I could, a faint stir brushed across my cheek.

  Loose strands of hair lifted, drifting off my face as though a gust had slipped through the square. Only the air was too focused, too deliberate, tugging against my temple and curling across my lips.

  Henry grinned at my surprise. “See? Even the wind thinks you shouldn’t hide that face.”

  I caught the strands with my free hand and shoved them back, jaw tight. “I don’t need your wind for that.”

  His grin only widened, smug and unbothered.

  I smoothed the last of my hair back, the ale half-finished at my elbow. The press of bodies around us had grown thicker, laughter sharp and uneven as the fiddler’s tune stumbled into something faster.

  I stood, lifting my mug in a small gesture, drank and then set it down. “It’s been a fun night, Henry. But I think I’ll call it here.”

  His grin faltered, then returned as though pasted back in place. “Already? Don’t tell me Asholt’s too much for you.”

  I offered a polite smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Not too much. Just enough.”

  Before he could answer, I turned and slipped between the benches, weaving past a cluster of dancers and smoke from the spits. The square thinned toward the edge of the fountain, where only a few couples lingered with their drinks. The music dulled here, muffled by distance.

  I’d reached the edge when boots scuffed behind me.

  “Leaving already?” Henry’s voice carried too easily. He caught up with the easy swagger of a man who thought no one ever told him no, hands loose at his sides, grin still plastered wide. “You don’t strike me as the type to turn in early.”

  “I said it was a fun night,” I answered, keeping my steps even. “I didn’t say it had to last forever.”

  He lifted a hand, fingers twitching with casual precision. A sharp breeze stirred, not the cold one off the valley but tighter, focused. It pressed at my legs, tugging at my shirt, pushing back against each step. I stopped short, heat prickling my skin.

  Henry tilted his head, his grin turning sly. “See? Even the wind wants you to stay.”

  I shoved past the current with a sharp breath, jaw tight. “Stop it.”

  “Easy,” he said, chuckling. His fingers flexed again, tracing a lazy arc through the air. “Just a little fun.”

  The air coiled at once, swirling faster as his hands moved. Strands of my hair lifted snapping across my face, tugged by the current. Fabric whipped against my arms, the circle of wind tightening until I was forced to brace my stance.

  Henry laughed, raising both hands now, palms wide as if pulling invisible strings. “Not bad, eh? Quicker than steel. Nobody walks away when the air’s mine.”

  And then–

  It stopped.

  The swirl collapsed in an instant, the air falling still as though it had never moved. My hair dropped limp against my cheek, the square suddenly quiet except for the crackle of firepits.

  Across from me, Henry staggered as though struck. A controlled gust slammed his chest and drove him back into a post, his breath leaving in a grunt. He blinked, stunned, while the villagers nearby burst into laughter sharp and sudden, their jeers cutting deeper than the wind had.

  I turned, pulse hammering. Art stood a pace away, his hand just lowering from a sharp, precise motion. His jaw was set tighter than usual, eyes colder, the faintest edge of anger breaking through the calm he wore like armor.

  “If you need your hands to keep her still,” he said, voice even but edged, “you’re weaker than I thought.”

  Henry had no reply.

  Art didn’t wait for one. He turned and walked back into the dark edge of the square, the air still restless in his wake, leaving Henry humiliated and me staring after him, the echo of his words heavy as stone.

  I shoved through the thinning crowd, my boots striking harder against the stone than I meant, pulse sharp in my throat.

  “Art!”

  He didn’t slow, his shoulders set, the lamplight catching in the edge of his hair as he strode for the darker fringe of the square. I caught up with him, breath quick, my words cutting sharper than I’d intended.

  “I could’ve handled it.”

  He stopped then, only enough to turn his head. His jaw was tight, eyes colder than I’d seen them. “By letting him shove you around with wind?”

  “I wasn’t letting him,” I snapped. “I was waiting for a chance.”

  His voice cut back, low but edged. “Waiting isn’t handling.”

  The heat rose in my chest, sharper than the ale ever had. “And what, you think you had to humiliate him for me? Make sure everyone saw you step in?”

  His gaze flicked back to the square, then to me again, voice flat as steel. “Better they laugh at him than watch him press you further.”

  “You think I can’t handle myself?” I demanded. “I’ve lived through worse than some drunk soldier’s hand on my arm. I don’t need you stepping in every time someone looks my way.”

  For a moment, something flickered in his eyes – anger maybe, but buried deep under the weight of restraint.

  “You’re right,” he said finally, the words clipped. “You don’t need me.”

  He turned without waiting for an answer, his figure swallowed by shadows as he strode down the empty street, leaving me alone in the fading glow of the lanterns.