Celeste

  If he weren’t holding that barrier over us, I might’ve drowned him in the storm myself. He was lucky I didn’t have a spare brick or I’d have thrown it at his head just to see if it echoed.

  All that brooding talk of silence and scars, as if I’d asked him to bare his soul when all I wanted was something honest. Just one truth that wasn’t twisted into a lesson. As if holding secrets made him noble instead of insufferable.

  A part of me wanted to shove him hard enough to see if even his precious barrier would hold when he landed on his back.

  But I didn’t. I kept my hands on the reins and bit down on the urge, because no matter how maddening he was, he was still the one keeping me dry. Still the one keeping me alive. As much as I hated to admit it, I did. His secrets were walls, and walls were what had kept him alive, and maybe tearing them down wasn’t my right.

  So I let out a breath and shifted in my saddle, letting the frustration cool into something sharper and easier to carry. Sarcasm.

  “Fine,” I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear over the rain. “Keep your riddles. I didn’t ask for bedtime stories. Just don’t let this storm soak through my head, and I won’t brain you with a rock. Fair trade?”

  His profile stayed hard, unreadable in the shimmer of the barrier, but I thought I caught the faintest twitch of his cheek. A smirk, small but there.

  I arched a brow, but he wasn’t looking. “See? No half-truths there.”

  The words hung between us, sharp but lighter somehow. The rain hissed down the barrier, the horses pressed on, and for the first time since last night, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.

  A gust rattled the shimmer overhead, harder than before. Art’s voice broke through, steady but clipped. “This storm’s not easing. We’ll need shelter soon.”

  I bit back another jab, half a dozen good ones came to mind, and only nodded. My mare slogged through the mud, ears flicking with every rumble of thunder.

  We rode on, the road narrowing between dripping trees and rising stone. The downpour pressed harder, hammering the barrier until it groaned like stretched glass. My cloak clung cold to my shoulders, even with his casting holding the worst of it back.

  By the time the hills started rising around us, my thighs ached from the saddle and the air tasted of wet stone. I kept my eyes on the blur of gray and green until Art slowed, lifting a hand.

  “There,” he said.

  At first, I saw nothing but another swell of earth. Then the line of it broke, shadow carving a dark mouth into the hillside. Not a cave, not fully, more like a hallow where stone had eroded away ages ago. Rain streamed across its lip, dripping down narrow rivulets, but the interior yawned dry and black.

  We urged the horses forward. The ground sloped beneath us, slick stone under their hooves, but the hollow had widened enough to fit us all. Roots dangled from the ceiling, the air cool and damp, carrying the smell of moss and wet stone. The sound of the storm dulled once we crossed inside, fading into a muffled hiss.

  It wasn’t much, a wound in the hill’s side, but it was shelter. And for now, it was enough.

  The horses shifted uneasily in the hollow, steam curling faint from their coats in the damp chill. Art tethered them close to the wall where the rock cut deepest, then turned his focus to the ground. With practiced motions, he gathered the driest brush tucked under the overhang, hands steady despite the storm raging beyond.

  I leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching. “You really think you’re going to start a fire in this?”

  He didn’t answer right away. A flick of his fingers, a whisper of heat, and the brush caught in a low crackle. Orange light flicking against the stone. His expression didn’t change, but the faintest glint in his eyes gave him away.

  “Show-off,” I muttered, though the warmth was welcomed.

  The storm outside drummed harder, a relentless percussion against the earth. Water streamed at the cave mouth, pooling in shallow rivulets before sinking into the ground. Art crouched by the fire a moment longer, feeding it until the glow steadied, then sat back against the wall with a slow exhale.

  “This storm won’t break quickly,” he said at last. “We stay here, ride it out.” His gaze shifted to me, steady as ever. “Better use the time for something useful.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Useful?”

  “Practice,” he said simply. “Reach for Enervation. Learn to feel your vessel before the next fight forces it from you.”

  A short laugh slipped out of me, sharp and incredulous. “So that’s what this is. Your way of getting me to shut up.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, as though he was fighting down a smile. “And miss all your charming commentary?”

  I rolled my eyes and let out a sharp breath through my nose, half a laugh, half annoyance. “Wonderful. Collapse on command. That’s exactly how I wanted to spend the afternoon.”

  His eyes lifted to mine then, steady, unyielding. “You know this is for your own good. Every push makes your stronger. You’ll eventually get used to it… kind of.”

  My glare held, though I pressed my lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile. But the way he said it settled something in me even as my stomach knotted.

  I sighed, dragging my hands down my face before settling back against the stone. “Fine. But if I wake up with a headache, you’re getting one too.”

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  His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk threatening. “You’ve been giving me headaches since this journey began.”

  I shot him a look, but he’d already turned back to the fire as if the words slipped out without weight.

  “All right,” I muttered, settling cross-legged near the fire. “Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

  Art leaned back against the stone, one knee drawn up, eyes steady on me. “Same as before. Don’t burn it all in one burst. Control first, power second. Let it drain slow until you break.”

  I rolled my eyes but lifted my hands anyway, light sparking faintly in my palms. “You know, most people would just say ‘good luck’ before asking someone to pass out in front of them.”

  His mouth turned into smirk. “Most students don’t survive it.”

  That shut me up. I focused, pulling the light sharper, brighter, then releasing it in flickers. Small pulses at first, then larger. Small sparks, then wider flares. Time blurred, my arms trembled with the constant shaping. The fire crackled steadily, the storm outside rising and falling in waves against the stone.

  “Again,” Art said when my hands shook. His voice stayed calm, patient, even as sweat dampened my hair and trickled down my temple. “Control the size, not the strength.”

  Time lost its edges. My shoulders ached, every muscle taut from holding steady. The light sputtered sometimes, too strong or too weak, but his voice kept pressing me forward. Each correction pulled another thread of strength from my chest.

  By the time the vessel neared empty, my breaths came shallow, every flare of light a strain. The world narrowed to the faint shimmer in my hands and the rasp of his voice.

  “Almost there,” he said quietly. “Don’t fight it. Let it drain. I’ll catch you.”

  The glow guttered out. My arms dropped uselessly, chest hollow, my body swaying as darkness closed in.

  Strong hands caught me before I hit the stone, lowering me gently against the wall. His voice followed, low and certain in my ear.

  “Easy. I’ve got you.”

  The warmth of the fire blurred, then slipped into black.

  ***

  When I stirred again, the fire was nothing but a bed of glowing coals and the storm outside had gone silent. The hiss of rain was gone, replaced by the faint drip of water off the rocks.

  My head felt thick, every limb heavy, as if I’d slept for days. The stone at my back was cold, though a blanket I didn’t remember covered my shoulders. I shifted, blinking against the dim light.

  Across from me, Art sat with his back against the wall, the firelight catching on the edges of his profile. His sword was set aside this time, replaced with a small leather-bound book balanced on his knee. Charcoal darkened his fingertips. He didn’t look up right away, his hand steady as it moved across the page.

  “You’re awake,” he said at last, his voice even, quiet enough not to press against my headache.

  I swallowed as I sat up. “How long?”

  “Long enough.” He shut the book without fuss and set the charcoal aside. “The storm’s passed. We’ll move when you can stay in the saddle.”

  I rubbed my temples and groaned. “For all your teaching, you never did mention how much Enervation sucks.”

  His mouth twitched. “It’s the only way your vessel grows. You’ve done it a few times now. What’s a few hundred more?”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered, dropping my hands in my lap. “So the rest of my life is just headaches and dirt naps. Truly inspiring.”

  His smirk deepened by a fraction, though he didn’t look up from the charcoal moving across his page.

  The fire snapped softly, the storm outside now little more than a drip from the overhang. I let my head tip back against the stone as I closed my eyes, the ache still buzzing in my temples but fading, slow and stubborn. My body felt wrung out, but warm from the flames.

  Art hadn’t moved much, only stirred the fire once. When I finally cracked an eye, he was leaning against the wall again, his sword within arm’s reach, the notebook once again balanced across his knee. His hand moved steady and quiet, like he’d forgotten I was even there.

  I watched him for a beat, curiosity pressing through the haze of exhaustion. That book was never far from his hands. Every time he thought I wasn’t paying attention, he’d be scratching away in it.

  Finally, I shifted, my voice scratchy but steady. “You’re always scribbling in that thing. You sketch more than you talk,” I muttered, my voice dry. “That book of yours must be full of secrets you’ll never tell.”

  He didn’t look up. “Better secrets than half-truths.”

  I snorted. “Oh, so that’s where you hide them. Figures. Scribbling in a notebook while the rest of us are too busy collapsing.”

  His mouth twitched, though he kept his eyes on the page. “It keeps my hands busy.”

  “And your mouth conveniently shut,” I said, smirking faintly.

  This time he let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

  Curiosity finally got the better of me. I pushed myself up and padded over, brushing the dirt from my palms. “Fine then, if you won’t talk, I’ll see for myself.”

  He made no move to stop me as I leaned closer. He tilted the notebook and flipped through the pages – dozens of them, filled with sharp, intricate lines. Stags in mid-leap, birds with their wings fanned wide, the curve of a riverbank traced with delicate care. Every line was precise, detailed, almost alive.

  I blinked. “Gods… These are beautiful. You’ve been carrying this around all this time and said nothing?”

  His shoulders lifted in a quiet shrug. “They’re just drawings.”

  “Just drawings?” I traced a finger above the air over one of the pages, afraid to smudge the charcoal. “These are better than most tapestries I’ve seen. You could sell these and never have to swing that sword of yours again.”

  A faint huff escaped him, but his thumb stayed pressed firm against he edge of the page, hiding the one beneath. My eyes narrowed.

  “And what’s this one you’re guarding like a state secret?” I asked lightly.

  He didn’t answer.

  So I reached, quicker than he expected, and flipped the page before he could stop me.

  My breath caught.

  It was… me.

  Sleeping, head tilted against the stone, hair spilled loose around my shoulders. Every line was soft, careful, shaded with patience.

  I froze, staring at it, my pulse a sharp drum in my ears.

  For a moment I just stared. He’d drawn me. Not just a sketch, not the rough outlines he gave a tree or a ride of hills, but me as I was a little while ago.

  Heat pricked the back of my neck. He didn’t even see it, what he was showing, what it meant. Or maybe he did and was too dense to realize it gave him away.

  Of course it stirred something in me. How could it not? He’d held me close more times than I could count, steadied me through storms, and smiled at me with that crooked grin on his face.

  Now this. A sketch tender enough to feel like a confession, but he’d never call it one. He’d never even realize what it meant.

  It was maddening. Flattering and infuriating all at once.

  So I did what I always did when something cut too close. I covered it with sarcasm.

  “Really?” I said, tilting the page toward the light. “All that brooding and sword-swinging, and secretly you’re sketching sleeping girls? If I’d known, I’d have charged you for the show.”

  His jaw tightened, but his mouth twitched just enough to betray him.

  “Relax,” I added, smirking as I flipped the book closed and handed it back. “You’re secret’s safe with me. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the terrifying Artemis is a hopeless romantic with charcoal smudges on his fingers.”

  But when I leaned back, I couldn’t shake the thought. Maybe he didn’t even see the meaning behind it. Or maybe he did, and I was the fool for hoping it meant more.

  We stayed in the cavern for a while before we decided it was time to set out. Ash clung faintly to the rock where the fire had been, the smell of smoke lingering on our cloaks. Art cinched the last strap on his saddle, his movements quiet, while I busied myself with my mare. Neither of us spoke about the sketchbook, though the weight of it still pressed between us.

  We mounted up without a word, hooves squelching through damp earth as we climbed back toward the road. The world felt washed raw, the hills glistening under a dull gray sky, puddles collecting in every rut and hollow.

  For a long while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of hooves and the faint hiss of wind still curling at our backs. The silence wasn’t sharp this time. Just heavy, layered with everything we’d said, and everything we hadn’t.

  The road stretched on, endless and uncertain, and we rode it together anyway.

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