Celeste

  The smell of scorched stone and burned flesh clung in the air. My breath was ragged in the sudden silence. There was no one remaining.

  We had killed them all.

  The heat in my palms faded, leaving my fingers trembling. My knees gave way before I could stop them, the forest floor rushed up to meet me. Every heartbeat seemed to echo in my skull now that the roar of combat was gone. My limbs felt heavy, each breath sharp in my chest. The gash in my arm throbbed in time with my pulse, the pain cutting through the haze that carried me this far.

  I looked toward Art. He was breathing hard too, shoulders rising and falling with each deep drag of air. I could see his hands were trembling too. Then, with a quiet exhale, he let himself drop fully to his knees. For a moment, he didn’t move at all, just stayed there, head lowered, like the weight of the fight had finally caught up to him.

  For a heartbeat, panic gripped me. Had he pushed himself too far and reached Enervation? If he had, he could collapse any second. If that happened out here, after everything, I didn’t know if could get him back on his feet.

  “Art?” my voice cracked more than I wanted it to. “Are you–“

  It took him a second to answer, his head lifting just enough for me to see his eyes.

  “Not there yet,” he said, voice low but steady. “But I need a moment.”

  He shifted, lowering himself to sit with one knee bent, leaning back against the nearest tree. I let myself do the same, sinking to the ground opposite him. The dirt was cold through my clothes, but I didn’t care.

  I pressed a hand to my arm, light beginning to gather in my palm. The wound pulled tight under my touch, the ache easing. Until the familiar pull hit my chest. My vision swam at the edges. If I kept going, I’d tip over the edge and crash hard. Enervation.

  I pulled my hand back with a sharp breath. The gash would have to wait.

  For a few minutes, neither of us moved. The only sounds were our breathing and the distant rustle of leaves high above, the forest slowly coming back to itself now that the fight was over.

  After a few minutes, Art pushed himself to his feet. His movements were deliberate and steady. Without a word, he crossed to the nearest corpse and knelt beside it.

  I watched him work through the aftermath. He moved form one body to the next, checking pockets, belts, and pouches. A few coins clinked faintly as he slipped them into his pocket. There was nothing reverent about the way he searched them, but there was no malice either. Just cold practicality of someone who’d done this before.

  When he finished with the bodies, his attention shifted to the horses. Only three remained, the others either bolted or down in the fight. He stepped to the first, unfastening the leather satchel hanging at its flank. There was a soft thud as the supplies hit the ground, followed by dried rations, a waterskin, more coins, and a whetstone.

  Then he stilled.

  He pulled a folded parchment free from the side of the pouch, its wax seal broken but still clinging to the edges. Even from where I sat, I could see the sharp, deliberate script across its surface. The parchment was thick, edges clean, the handwriting was clean.

  Art read it once, jaw tightening. Then his eyes flicked to me.

  “This wasn’t random,” he said quietly. “They weren’t just bounty hunters. They were hired. Directly.”

  I didn’t’ have to ask by who.

  He looked at me, and then he began to read the paper aloud this time.

  The bearer of this order is tasked with locating and securing the property known as Celeste Halloway alive and physically whole. Lesser injuries are immaterial, as the subject’s abilities ensure full recovery. The subject is considered extremely dangerous. She is an Aberration and a Variant, confirmed to wield Healing. It is believed – based on recent events – that she may also command Ardor Light. Delivery is to be made directly to the undersigned. Payment in full upon confirmation of delivery. Failure to comply will forfeit all compensation.

  Authorized by: –

  The bottom line was nothing but a jagged tear, name cleanly removed.

  “They cut the name out,” Art said, his voice low. “Slavery’s illegal. Harder to enforce with the war, but still illegal. Bounty hunters will strip the name to protect whoever hired them.”

  Property. Extremely dangerous. The words tangled together in my mind, cold and suffocating. They hadn’t just priced me like cargo. They’d weighed me like a weapon.

  Art’s gaze lingered on the torn edge for a beat longer, then he folded the paper and tucked it into his coat. “Whoever paid for this isn’t going to stop just because we killed these ones.

  “They call you property,” he said, voice steady but sharp around the edges. He looked up at me. “I think it’s time we prove them wrong.”

  I stayed where I was, legs heavy, the throbbing in my arm reminding me how close I’d come to not being here at all.

  He glanced back toward the remaining horses and headed for them without a word.

  “We’re taking these,” he said over his shoulder. “Faster than walking. And I don’t know about you but I’m too tired to even try.”

  I followed without a word, matching his pace. The nearest horse shifted uneasily as he approached, ears flicking at the scent of blood. He took the reins, murmuring low to calm it, then began checking the saddles and cinches.

  Halfway through, he reached into a side pouch and pulled out a small, hardened lump the color of dark amber.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Flare resin,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “Highly flammable sap from a particular tree. You toss it in the air, light it mid-flight, and it burns bright enough to be seen for miles. That’s how they signal each other when they’ve found something worth chasing.” He slipped it into his pack. “We’ll keep it. Could be useful.”

  I imagined the streak of red-orange light arcing above the treetops earlier, the way the air had seemed to shudder when it went off.

  He moved to the second horse, tossing me the reins of the first without looking back. “Ride light and don’t get ahead of me,” he said, eyes still scanning the treeline. “If anyone else is on our trail, I want them to see me first.”

  I climbed into the saddle, wincing as the leather tugged against my leg. Art was already mounted, turning one of the other horses by the reins.

  “South,” he said, glancing back at me. “We’ll make distance first. Then we’ll worry about where we’re going.”

  The battlefield stretched behind us, scattered with bodies and broken gear. I didn’t look for long. My fingers tightened on the reins and I nudged my horse forward.

  We kept to the deeper trees, steering clear of any open ground. My horse picked its way over roots and moss while I glanced back over my shoulder. The clearing was already swallowed by the forest, but it didn’t feel far enough.

  The horses moved at a steady trot, their hooves thudding dully against the forest floor. My fingers tightened on the reins until my knuckles ached.

  This was the second group to find me. The first time, Art had stepped in and killed them seamlessly. This time… this time we’d barely made it through. He was strong. But these bounty hunters were sharper, faster, and harder to put down than Teresa’s crew was. If they were sending people like this now, what would the next wave look like?

  The thought turned heavy in my chest. I’d put Art in danger, again – worse than before – and he hadn’t hesitated to throw himself into it… again. I wanted to believe I was ready to fight beside him, but every breath of cold air reminded me I still leaned on him to survive.

  I let my gaze flick toward him for just a second. His posture was slouched, one hand loose on the reins while the other stayed pressed against his thigh.

  The wind through the trees felt sharper now. The forest quieter. Too quiet.

  We pressed on until the air cooled and the light dimmed, the scent of pine and damp oil thick around us. Only then did Art ease the reins.

  “This is far enough for now,” he said. “They’ll have to work to find us here.”

  We’d barely stopped long enough for the horses to steady their breathing when it came – a faint, rolling thump that didn’t belong to the forest.

  At first, I thought it might’ve been my imagination, my ears still ringing from the fight. But then another sound followed, sharper, crisper. Hoofbeats. They were distant, but moving.

  Art’s head turned toward the noise before I even registered it, his whole posture tightening.

  Then, in the gap between branches, a streak of crimson light tore up into the night sky.

  A flare.

  Another one.

  The red bloom hung in the air, searing itself into my vision.

  A knot formed in my stomach.

  If this group was like the last, we were already too close. And if they were worse…

  Art’s voice cut through my thoughts, low and urgent.

  “We move. Now.”

  The flare still burned in my mind, even as its light faded into the night.

  Art didn’t speak. He just urged his horse off the faint path we’d been following, angling us deeper into the dark.

  We moved where the trees were tight enough to scrape my knees if I wasn’t careful. The canopy swallowed the moonlight, leaving only narrow bands of silver that he seemed to navigate by instinct. When he had to cross those open slashes of light, he timed it with the drifting clouds and rode only when shadows cast and swallowed us whole.

  Our tracks vanished behind us as he worked. A low gust swept back along the trail, brushing away hoofprints and scattering the leaves we’d disturbed. He even leaned down once to press his palm to the ground, coaxing a sheen of moisture over the earth until it looked as though no one had passed at all.

  When the sound of running water reached us, he steered us straight into it without a word. The shock of cold splashed up my legs, but I bit back a gasp. We kept to the stream for what felt like forever, hooves churning quietly beneath the dark surface.

  Only when the creek bent hard to the east did he lead us out, the horses dripping and shivering. The forest closed around us again, damp and black, hiding us from the flare’s ghost light that was no longer there.

  Art slowed his horse, letting it drift to a halt beneath a thicket of low-leaning pine. The needles formed a curtain overhead, thick enough to muffle the wind.

  “This is far enough for now,” he said at last, his voice low. He slid from the saddle, keeping one hand on the reins, and scanned the dark between the trees.

  I could still hear the creek’s faint trickle somewhere behind us. No pursuit yet. No shouts. But still, my muscles remained tight. Waiting for the next flash of light to prove we hadn’t outrun anything at all.

  Art finally exhaled and loosened his grip on the reins. “We’ll keep the horses close. No fire. No talking above a whisper.”

  I nodded, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Whether it was the cold or the leftover surge of adrenaline, I couldn’t tell. My heartbeat still hadn’t found a steady rhythm.

  Art crouched, running a hand through the leaf litter, sweeping away any sign of where we’d stopped. The movements were quick, practiced. “We leave tracks, we invite company,” he muttered without looking up.

  I slid down from the saddle, my legs stiff and unsteady from the ride. The horses shifted restlessly, ears flicking at the distant calls of night birds. Every sound in the dark felt sharper. Closer.

  Art straightened, scanning the treeline again, then moved to check the horses’ tack in silence. I watched him work, his silhouette a steady shape against the shifting shadows. That steadiness was the only thing keeping the knot in my chest from tightening further.

  Art looped the reins loosely around a low branch, close enough for a quick grab. He gave the horses a quiet pat, calming them before moving to the narrowest patch of ground between two leaning oaks.

  “This’ll do,” he said, voice barely above the wind. “We keep to the shadows. If we need to move, we move fast.”

  I knelt beside him, easing my satchel down. The ground was uneven and cold, but we didn’t bother clearing it.

  There was no time for comfort.

  Art pulled a folded blanket from his pack and spread it thin over the damp earth, just enough to keep the chill from seeping straight into our bones.

  The forest pressed in on all sides. Leaves whispered overhead, shifting in slow, restless patterns. My hands worked automatically, checking the edge of my boots, making sure nothing was tangled or loose enough to slow me if I had to run.

  Art settled with his back to one of the oaks, sword across his lap. His eyes stayed open, scanning.

  I lowered myself beside him, leaving just enough space between us for both of us to reach for our weapons without bumping into the other. The cold bit through my clothes, but I forced myself still, matching his quiet.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Art said, settling with his back against the tree. “You need the rest more than I do.”

  I frowned. “You’ve been through the same fight I have–”

  “I’ll be fine,” he cut in.

  “You should at least–”

  “Celeste.” His voice carried the weight of an order. “Go to sleep.”

  I hesitated. “It just doesn’t feel right, you staying awake while–”

  His jaw tightened. “I said I’ll be okay.”

  I stayed quiet for a breath, then tried again. “We could split it. Half and half. That way–”

  “Dammit, Celeste, my well runs deep. I’ve emptied it and clawed my way back more times than you’ve been alive, so drop it.”

  The words hit harder than he seemed to realize. For a moment, neither of us moved. He looked away, eyes scanning the dark like nothing had happened, as if the slip had never left his mouth.

  But it had.

  And now it was lodged in my mind, sharp and unshakeable. More times than you’ve been alive.

  He didn’t look much older than me. Mid-twenties, maybe. Yet there’s something in the way he’d said it. Flat, certain.

  That didn’t sound like exaggeration.

  I swallowed whatever question tried to rise. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

  So I turned over, pulling the blanket tighter, and let the forest’s quiet press in.

  Sleep came slow, tangled with the thought of what he really was.