Celeste

  I woke to warmth at my side. The sun had climbed high, light filtering through the branches in pale gold. Art lay beside me, one arm folded under his head, his breathing slow and even. The hard lines I’d grown used to, the ones he carried when scanning the trees or holding steel in his hands, had eased.

  I wondered if anyone else had ever seen him like this.

  A lock of hair had fallen forward over his brow, the faint shadow of stubble tracing his jaw. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, the sound almost in time with the creek’s slow murmur. For a moment, it struck me how deeply I’d slept. Deeper than I had in months. Because he’d been here. Because if danger had come, he’d have been between me and it before I even woke.

  Different. That was the word that kept circling back. He wasn’t like the men who tried to own me, break me. His protection didn’t feel like a cage.

  My gaze lingered longer than it should have. He looked different without the weight of danger pressing down – still dangerous, but in a way that made me think less of blades and more of the way his hand had been steady over mine when he healed me.

  I shifted to stretch my legs, just enough to ease the stiffness from my calves. His eyes opened instantly.

  Something in that look made my fingers tighten in the blanket. Not fear. Not exactly. But close enough that I kept still.

  “You were staring,” he said, voice low, rough from sleep.

  “Didn’t want to wake you,” I murmured. “Didn’t know you were capable of sleeping that deep.”

  “I’m not.” A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “I heard you shift. I was just deciding if you were worth opening my eyes for.”

  My lips quirked despite myself.

  “And?”

  “Still undecided.”

  “Good to know I rate somewhere between sleep and curiosity,” I said dryly.

  He stretched, slow and deliberate, as if to prove he’d taken his time for a reason. “Curiosity keeps me alive,” he said. “Sleep… keeps you from snapping at me before breakfast.”

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Maybe.” His smile widened just enough to catch the edge of sunlight. “But I don’t hear you denying it.”

  My stomach answered for me, the low growl cutting through the space between us.

  He arched a brow. “Subtle.”

  “Maybe I’ll forgive you if there’s bread involved.”

  “Don’t have any bread, but I do have some meat.” He pushed himself up, stretching once before reaching for his pack. “Dried what was left of the boar yesterday morning before everything went to hell. Figured it’d keep better that way.”

  I blinked. “You made jerky in an hour?”

  “Not proper jerky,” he said, pulling a wrapped bundle free. “Just sliced it thin and burned the moisture out. It’ll be tough, but it’s food.”

  I took the strip he offered, turning it over in my hand. “Smells like smoke.”

  “Better than smelling like rot.” His mouth twitched. “Besides, it’s my specialty.”

  I bit into it, chewing hard. “If this is your specialty, I’m starting to worry about the rest of your skills.”

  That earned me the first real laugh I’d heard from him. It had a warmth to it I felt I needed right now.

  His brow arched. “That sounds like someone volunteering to cook next time.”

  “I’ll have you know, I’m better with a skillet than you are with that jerky.” I took another bite, mostly to keep from smiling.

  He leaned back on his elbows, a glint in his eye. “I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

  I snorted, more out of habit than offense, and tore off another bite. “Fair. But mine’s at least edible.”

  “That’s debatable,” he said, but his tone was softer now, the last nights bite gone from it.

  We ate in a stretch of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable. The sun had risen clear over our heads, laying strips of light between the dense trees. Somewhere beyond the trees, the creek still murmured, a reminder that water wasn’t far.

  By the time I was scraping the last of the meat clean, Art was already on his feet, eyes skimming the treeline like he always did. Even when he was still, there was a restlessness to him, like he was always leaning toward the next move.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “You’re thinking about leaving again,” I said.

  “Not far,” he replied. “Just want to make sure the trail stayed cold.”

  The words were easy, but I saw the tension settle back into his shoulders.

  I pushed myself up, brushing crumbs from my hands. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time. If someone’s still out there, I don’t want you walking straight into them.”

  “That’s not your decision,” I said.

  “Maybe not. But I’ll make it anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder, that faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “You can yell at me for it when I get back.”

  Something in me wanted to. But instead, I just huffed and reached for my canteen. “Fine. But don’t take too long. I don’t like being left behind.”

  His eyes softened a fraction.

  “Noted.”

  I watched him go until the trees swallowed him, the air settling heavy again. The sunlight didn’t quite reach the forest floor, but it caught in the frost, making the ground glitter faintly. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and sat back, trying not to think about how far away he’d be in another few minutes.

  Somewhere behind me, the creek kept up its steady whisper. I focused on that instead of the memory of boot tracks or the flare resin he’d slid into his coat yesterday. If anyone was still in these woods, I’d have to trust him to find them before they found us.

  And hope he came back just as quietly as he’d left.

  The minutes bled into each other, the forest holding its own kind of stillness. A jay screeched once in the distance, then went quiet again. My eyes kept drifting to the spaces between the trees, tracing shadows that might’ve been movement if I looked hard enough.

  I tried to tell myself he wouldn’t be gone long. That he’d know the quickest way to sweep the area and circle back. But every crackle of leaves underfoot that wasn’t him made the quiet feel sharper.

  I took a slow drink from the canteen, letting the cold water anchor me. My fingers had just started to thaw when I caught it. It was the faintest shift in the air, like the woods had taken a breath it didn’t mean to.

  I stilled, every muscle listening.

  The whisper of the creek suddenly felt farther away.

  A shadow moved between the trees.

  I gripped the blanket tighter until Art stepped through, quiet as he’d left.

  “Everything’s clear,” he said, but his eyes were already sweeping past me, tracing the treeline like he was counting something.

  I exhaled, trying to sound casual. “That quick?”

  “Quicker than it needed to be.” His tone was even, but there was a faint edge to it.

  He adjusted the strap of his pack, a small, sharp motion that drew my attention to the faint smear of dirt along the back of his coat. Not our dirt, the soil here was frozen hard, pale with frost. This was darker.

  I opened my mouth to ask, but he was already turning away. “We should get moving if we want to reach Rodin before dark.”

  There was no reason to argue with that, so I didn’t. I just fell into step behind him, matching his pace as he led us back toward the main trail.

  He didn’t speak again, and I didn’t push. Whatever he’d seen, he wasn’t going to tell me. Not yet.

  Still, every so often his head would tilt, eyes flicking toward the deeper woods. And each time, the space between my shoulder blades tightened a little more.

  We left the frost-bound clearing behind, the path narrowing as the trees closed in again. The air carried that sharp bite that promised snow before long, each breath turning to pale mist between us.

  Art didn’t’ speak, his attention fixed ahead, but his pace was steady, like he knew exactly how far we’d make it before the light faded. I kept close, my boots crunching over crusted leaves, the sound loud in the quiet.

  Bit by bit, the forest began to change. The pines thinned, giving way to bare-branched maples and low, knotted scrub. Somewhere ahead, the land would open toward Rodin’s outskirts, but for now, the world was still all shadow and cold light.

  I pulled my cloak tighter and focused on the rhythm of our steps, the steady pull of the trail carrying us forward. Whatever had passed in the woods before he returned, I told myself it didn’t matter now. Rodin was waiting, and with it, whatever came next.

  The light was already thinning when the trees began to spread apart. Shafts of sun slipped between them in long, golden lines, catching on the frost clinging to the undergrowth. My breath clouded the air in steady bursts as we walked, the weight of the day pressing on my shoulders.

  Art’s pace didn’t slow until the treeline opened ahead, just enough for a strip of pale sky and the darker outline of distant hills to break the endless green. He stopped there, scanning the edge like he was measuring something I couldn’t see.

  “That’s as far as the trees will hide us,” he said, gaze lingering on the treeline a heartbeat too long. “Three leagues west puts us in a town.”

  I shifted the strap of my satchel. “We’ll make it before nightfall?”

  “If we keep pace,” he said, already moving.

  The air felt different out here, less muffled, sharper somehow. Every step away from the treeline made the ground firmer underfoot, and the forest’s scent gave way to something cleaner, cooler.

  The sky ahead was washed in a pale amber that deepened toward the horizon, promising no more than an hour of true light. Our boots crunched over the frozen grass, patches of frost breaking underfoot with soft, brittle snaps. Somewhere far to the west, the sun was sinking, drawing the shadows longer across the open ground.

  We rode in silence for the first league, the forest receding behind us until it was only a dark wall in the distance. Without the cover of trees, the wind reached us in low, steady gusts, pulling at my cloak and tossing strands of hair into my face. It carried the faintest trace of woodsmoke. Thin, far-off, but enough to stir something I couldn’t quite place.

  By the second league, the land began to change. The ground sloped gently downward into the shallow valley where pale winter grasses swayed in the wind. A narrow road cut through it, the dirt worn into the twin grooves by years of wagon wheels.

  “We’ll take the road from here,” Art said. “Easier to follow in the dark if we need to.”

  I turned in the saddle, the forest reduced to the faintest shadow, like it was already forgetting us. I half-expected to see something move in the shadowed edge. But nothing followed us. Only the wind and the slow drift of frost.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger as we rode. Not heavy or choking, just enough to cling faintly to the air. My hands tightened on the reins without thinking, my eyes following the lay of the land as the road curved around a low hill.

  I knew that smell, the way it mingled with the cold air, but it wasn’t the only thing. The road here dipped the same way I remembered, with a watch post leaning at its far end. I’d been through here before, years ago, passing through on the way west.

  Art glanced over his shoulder at me. “Something wrong?”

  I shook my head quickly, pulling my cloak tighter. “Just… smells familiar.”

  “Most towns will, if you’ve spent enough time in them,” he said, and turned his gaze forward again.

  We crested the hill and the rest of the town unfolded: a patchwork fence line along the left side of the road, rails repaired with mismatched boards, a row of bushes rustling softly in the wind. The same crooked tree standing alone in the ditch-side grass.

  I kept my eyes on it as we passed under the watch post, telling myself it was nothing. Just another town on the road.

  reading, cause these next few chapters are turning into some of my favorites.