Celeste

  We crested the last hill at a slow pace. The trees thinned first, then gave way to a clearing. And then there it was – Avriel.

  I thought I would never see it again. Smoke drifted from the few chimneys, lazy and unhurried. The fields laid pale and sullen, the harvest long gone. All that remained were brittle vines and overturned earth.

  Some of the houses were shoddily repaired. They had the same crooked rooflines along with new cracked plaster hastily patched with uneven boards. Familiar in all the worst ways.

  I didn’t know what I expected.

  Relief. Anger. Grief.

  But all I felt was hollow.

  A few figures moved between the houses, too far to recognize. But something in their gait, their stillness, it hit me like a stone.

  They looked older. Worn thinner. It was as though the last four months hadn’t passed over them, but through them.

  I spotted a silhouette near the well. He was bent slightly, limping on a leg that I remembered used to be strong. It was Rowan. An older man who used to be kind to me and my mother. I remembered his unusual laugh, like a cork popping loose under pressure. Now, even at this distance, he didn’t look like someone who laughed anymore.

  They moved like ghosts. Half there, half lost to something none of us had words for. My throat tightened, but I didn’t cry. I just watched them. Small as ants from the hill, and wondered how many faces I’d recognize.

  And how many I wouldn’t.

  Someone looked up. A figure by the drying racks. They turned their head too fast. Or maybe they hadn’t been looking at me at all. I don’t know why my stomach dropped either way.

  I counted four people out in the open.

  Four, in a village that used to buzz with voices by this time of day.

  No children’s laughter. No barking dogs. Just the wind and the faint clatter of firewood being stacked behind the houses.

  I didn’t know why I was afraid. I’d lived among them all my life. Walked these roads and pulled water from the same well.

  But now, I was a stranger wearing my own skin.

  And I didn’t know if they’d look at me and see Celeste… or see the resentment meant for a girl who came back when others didn’t.

  We kept moving, the road curling down toward the village like a question I wasn’t ready to answer.

  The clop of the horses hooves sounded too loud now, out of place in the silence we were riding into. I didn’t look at Artemis. I didn’t need to. I could feel his awareness sharpen beside me, like he was watching everything and everyone without seeming to.

  Each step closer felt heavier than the last.

  As we approached, I thought of my mother. I let out a slow breath, hoping it would keep the tears back.

  She’d always had a calmness to her, even when everything else felt like it was falling apart. The kind of tired that never showed on her face, just in the way she moved slower at the end of the day, like every step cost her just a little bit more.

  She didn’t leave behind wealth or legacy. She left behind warmth where there should have been ruin. The world had taken plenty from her, but it never once took her kindness.

  I didn’t know what they’d done with her body after I was taken.

  When the chaos finally settled, I hoped they’d been able to give her a proper burial. There would’ve been many to bury after that night.

  And Caleb…

  I blinked hard and kept my eyes ahead.

  He’d already been gone when it happened. He was pulled away like so many others when the war ramped up.

  We never got letters. But that wasn’t strange, not out here. Silence could mean anything. I didn’t even know if he was still alive. I told myself he was probably dead. He wasn’t a caster. And that made him easy to kill in a war built for power.

  I didn’t want to believe it. But it was easier than wondering what he’d come home to. Easier than imagining the look on his face when he saw what was left.

  If he was gone, at least he’d never have to know. Never have to see the place where she died, or the spot where she fell. And never have to wonder why I hadn’t stopped it.

  I needed him to be alive. But I know if he was, if he came back and found the house empty, our mother gone, and me vanished…

  Would he think he failed us? Or would he know the truth?

  That I did.

  I could still remember the last thing he said before he left.

  “Keep an eye on Mom. Don’t let her overwork herself while I’m gone.”

  He ruffled my hair like I was ten and just smiled that lopsided smile of his. He always did that when he was worried, but didn’t want me to know.

  He trusted me. And I left her.

  I didn’t know what I’d say to him.

  I reached forward and brushed my fingers through the mare’s mane, like the motion alone might settle something in me. Her warmth was steady beneath my palm. Steadier than I was. But it didn’t stop the ache.

  If Caleb was still out there, still breathing, still fighting, then one day I’d have to face him. And when I did, I didn’t know if he’d look at me with grief… or blame.

  The road leveled as we reached the bottom of the hill.

  A boy darted out from behind one of the sheds and froze when he saw us, eyes wide, with his feet planted like they’d grown roots.

  Edris.

  The carpenters son. He used to live near the edge of the village, always tagging behind his father holding his tool bag for him.

  “Celeste?”

  My throat tightened, heat building behind my eyes. I couldn’t break here. Not now. Not when I’d only just arrived.

  “Edris. You’ve grown taller,” was all I could manage.

  He blinked at me like he wasn’t sure I was real.

  Beside me, Art said nothing. But I could feel him watching. Not just Edris, but everything. He didn’t speak, just let me have this moment without interrupting.

  Edris took a step closer, hesitant, like I might vanish if he moved too fast. “We thought you were…” He didn’t finish. His voice cracked on the words he didn’t say.

  “I’m not.” The words felt too small for the weight they carried.

  A second shadow moved from behind the shed. An older woman this time, Calla. She paused when she saw me, a hand rising slowly to her mouth. Her eyes darted to Art, then back to me, widening, and then tears started to flow.

  The moment stretched thin, like the whole village was holding its breath, waiting on her reaction.

  She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around me. I didn’t fight it. Instead, I embraced her while my own tears slipped free, quiet and hot against my cheeks.

  When we finally pulled apart, both of us hastily wiped at our faces, laughing under our breath like we’d been caught doing something foolish.

  “You’re home,” she whispered, voice thick. “We though–” She stopped and shook her head. “Never mind what we thought.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again.

  Calla turned to Art then, seeming to notice him fully for the first time. Her expression shifted, the calm wariness of a woman who had long stood at the center of the village settling into her eyes as she took in the armed stranger before her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, straightening. “I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Calla. Thank you… for bringing her home.”

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  Art dipped his head in a quiet gesture of acknowledgement. “Don’t thank me. She did the hard part. I just happened to be there.”

  Calla blinked at that, her gaze returning to me, and something warm flickered there.

  Calla reached out, brushing a thumb along my cheek like she used to when I was little, when scrapes and bruises were the worst of my worries.

  “She’d be proud, you know. Of the way you’re standing here.”

  That almost broke me again.

  A door creaked open somewhere behind us, and then another, followed by footsteps. It wasn’t long before more villagers emerged from their homes. It was slow at first, cautious. Faces I recognized. And faces that aged in such a short span of time. People I’d known since I could walk, now staring at me like they’d seen a ghost.

  I stood a little straighter, feeling for a moment like I couldn’t show any signs of weakness.

  Someone whispered my name from somewhere in the growing crowd. A few murmurs followed. Someone else said it louder.

  “Celeste?”

  “I thought she–”

  “She’s alive.”

  The hush that followed wrapped around me like a blanket. Thick with disbelief, relief, and something in between.

  Art didn’t move. He remained at my side like a shadow with eyes, quiet and still, letting the moment belong to me. But I felt the tension in him, like a blade not yet sheathed.

  Calla squeezed my hand. “Come on. You should eat. You look like you’ve walked halfway across the kingdom.”

  The laughter that escaped me was thin and tired. “Feels like I did.”

  “You’ll tell us everything when you’re ready,” she said. “But not now. Right now, you just need to eat and rest.”

  We walked in silence through the heart of the village, the path winding back toward Calla’s home. The horses moved quietly beside us, their hooves soft against the packed dirt, reins held loose in our hands. I glanced around as we moved, trying to map the familiar onto what remained, but the place I remembered was gone. Houses that once stood proud were now collapsed or patched with mismatched wood. The square was emptier than it should have been. What few buildings remained intact looked worn thin.

  The village was unrecognizable, not just in shape, but in spirit. Like it had been hollowed out and was a shell of its former self.

  When we reached Calla’s house, Art moved ahead to post the horses just outside, tying the reins to a wooden beam near the edge of the porch. The animals stood quietly, tails flicking as the wind began to pick up.

  Once we stepped into her home, Calla took a small step back, eyes scanning me again, like she wasn’t sure I was real.

  “We don’t have much,” she said, voice quiet, apologetic. “But we’ll get you both something warm. What we do have… we share.”

  Calla disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the soft clang of cookware and the whisper of fire catching in the hearth. The smell of herbs rose soon after, curling through the air and drawing a tired kind of hunger out of me.

  I stood near the doorway, not yet sitting. My eyes drifted across the small room. It hadn’t changed as much as the village outside. The same worn table, the same clay pots lined up on the shelves. There was a new crack on the far wall which looked as though someone had tried to patch with cloth and mud. Somehow that made it worse.

  Art remained at my side, hands loose at his side, posture deceptively relaxed. His attention never left the window.

  “You can sit,” I murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He glanced at me, then the room, and nodded once before settling into a corner near the door. Not quite in, but not quite out either.

  Calla returned with two bowls cradled in her arms. She set one in front of me and offered the other to Art. He took it with a murmured thanks but didn’t eat right away. I didn’t either.

  The stew was thin, mostly broth and roots, but it was warm. I cupped the bowl in both hands, letting the heat soak into my skin.

  “I didn’t know what I expected,” I said after a long silence.

  Calla looked up from her own bowl. “From the village?”

  I nodded.

  She folded her hands over her knees. “No use pretending it was anything but awful. I’m not built for pretty lies.”

  I looked her in the eyes. There was quiet bone-deep sorrow inside them.

  “It’s been hard. Worse than hard. The night you were taken… it broke something in all of us.” She paused, pressing her lips together. “They came all at once, setting fire to some of the houses as they swept through. They burned one of the grain stores during the initial raid. Breaking down doors, raided our supplies, and even took some of our livestock.”

  She didn’t look at me while she spoke, eyes distant, like she was seeing it unfold all over again.

  “Mira was the first. She threw herself at them, screaming – trying to stop them from dragging her sister away, and they cut her down in front of the damn well.

  “Jorran tried to cast fire, gods help him, but he was just a boy. Still couldn’t hold it steady. They didn’t care. Swarmed him and drove their blades straight through.

  “Never stood a chance without his brother. His mother stopped getting out of bed after that. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t speak. She died last month, wasting away in silence.

  “And his brother – the one they took for the war – he doesn’t even know they’re all gone. He’s out there fighting for a kingdom that already took everything from him.”

  Calla exhaled slowly, like the telling of it had taken something from her.

  Then her eyes shifted to mine.

  “I saw you, you know. That night.”

  My breath caught.

  She didn’t say it with accusation, just a quiet knowing, like the truth had always been sitting between us.

  “You were kneeling beside her. Your hands were glowing, faint like moonlight through water. I’d never seen anything like it. Not in this village. Not from you”

  She paused. Gave me a moment to respond. But I didn’t.

  Because I couldn’t.

  “You were trying to heal her,” she said gently. “I didn’t tell anyone. I never planned to.”

  My fingers curled in my lap.

  “I know why you hid it,” she continued, voice steady. “Why you kept it to yourself all those years. Healing like that… it’s rare. Special. If word had gotten out, they would’ve taken you. Drafted you, same as your brother. And your mother would’ve been left here alone.”

  I looked down. The old guilt twisted like a knife in my chest.

  “You made the only choice you could.” Her voice softened. “And still… you didn’t run when it mattered.”

  She swallowed, her gaze drifting to a memory only she could see.

  “I watched you fighting so hard when they pulled you off of her before you could finish. Watched as you kicked and clawed, but they took you anyway… I’m so sorry, dear. I truly am…”

  My throat closed.

  Silence settled, thick and unmoving.

  Then, slowly, she reached out and rested her hand close enough to feel the warmth between us.

  “You didn’t fail her, Celeste. You were just one girl. And you gave everything you had.”

  Her voice broke, just a little.

  “And I’ll never tell a soul. Your secret stays with me. It always has.”

  After a period of time, Calla finally stood, brushing her palms together along the front of her skirt. “Well, you’ll be staying here tonight. I won’t hear any arguments.”

  She glanced toward the narrow hallway at the back of the house. “I’ve only got two rooms. One’s mine, but the other’s been empty a long time. Sheets are clean, though.”

  Before I could speak, Art shifted beside me.

  “I’ll sleep out here by the fire,” he said simply, already moving to sling his pack down by the door. “She gets the bed.”

  Calla opened her mouth as though to say something, but then just nodded. “All right, then. I’ve got one extra sheet I can bring you, and that fire’s got a good burn left in it.”

  Art gave her a quiet smile.

  I looked between them, guilt threading through me. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “You’d kick me off halfway through the night anyway,” he joked. “Better to start on the floor than wake up there after you’ve kicked me off.”

  Calla snorted. “Stubborn, both of you.”

  She started toward the back, pausing only to light a lantern off the hearth. The shadows stretching along the walls softened under its glow.

  “There’s water in the basin if you want to wash up,” she called. “And I’ll find you both something dry to sleep in.”

  I hesitated, then followed her down the short hallway. When she opened the door to the second bedroom, a thick silence wrapped around me. It wasn’t much, just a narrow bed and a small woven rug. There was a small chest at the foot, and the room smelled faintly of dried lavender.

  “You sure?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Calla turned to me, hand still on the doorframe. “I wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t.” Something in me settled, just a little.

  The fire had burned down to a gentle flicker by the time I returned from washing up. My skin still felt warm from the cloth, but the fatigue sat heavy behind my eyes.

  Art was already stretched out near the hearth, arms folded beneath his head, one leg crossed over the other like he was perfectly at ease on the hard floor. His sword was within reach. Of course it was.

  I hesitated near the doorway. “Comfortable?”

  He cracked one eye open. “I’ve slept on rocks that gave more cushion.”

  A ghost of a smile tugged at my mouth. “You offered.”

  “Still do,” he said, shutting his eyes again. “I like my sleep uncomfortable and full of regret.”

  I cracked a smile.

  For a moment, neither of us said anything. The fire popped quietly, shadows stretching long across the walls. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he wasn’t asleep.

  “You ever stay in one place this long before?” I asked.

  Art shifted slightly, folding his hands behind his head. “Define long.”

  I sat on the edge of the stool, tucking one leg up under me. “More than a week. Two, even.”

  He snorted. “Once. Got snowed in during a blizzard. Spent three days trapped in a small town with a widow and her very aggressive rooster.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds miserable.”

  “It was. The rooster hated me. The widow didn’t.” He cracked one eye open again, just long enough to gauge my reaction.

  I rolled my eyes, but my smile stuck. “Charming. I’m sure you broke both their hearts when you left.”

  Silence fell again, but it was lighter now. Easier.

  I glanced toward the door. “Calla’s different from how I remember.”

  Art turned his head toward me. “How so?”

  “She was always strong, but now it’s like… she’s holding the whole village together with thread and grit. Like if she stopped moving, everything would fall apart.”

  “She probably is.”

  I looked down at my hands. “I feel like a ghost here.”

  Art didn’t say anything at first. The fire cracked softly between us.

  “You’re not a ghost. Ghosts don’t steal my food or roll their eyes this much.”

  I huffed a quiet breath through my nose. “You’d miss it if I stopped.”

  “Maybe.” He shifted, resting one arm beneath his head, the other lying loosely across his chest. “But you’re not a ghost, Celeste. You’re still fighting.”

  I looked at him, really looked, and for a moment the firelight caught in his eyes, softening the hard edges of his face.

  “You belonged here once,” he said. “But you’re not the same girl who left. And this place… it’s not the same either.”

  I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. Because he was right.

  Whatever part of me used to fit here had been carved out, replaced with something harder. Sharper. I wasn’t sure there was room left for peace.

  Art didn’t fill the silence. He just watched me, quiet and steady like always.

  “I keep thinking,” I said finally, “if I just stayed a little longer… maybe I’d start to feel like myself again.”

  “You think that’s who you were before?”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  He shifted again, not quite sitting up, but closer than before. The firelight flickered along his jaw.

  “You act like you’re trying to get back to something,” he said. “But maybe that version of you was just the beginning.”

  My chest tightened. I hadn’t realized how much I needed someone to say that. Not with pity. Not with apology. Just… acceptance.

  “What If I don’t like who I’ve become?” I asked.

  Art tilted his head slightly. “Then change what you need to. Keep what you don’t. But don’t pretend you’re broken just because you’re different.”

  My throat felt too tight to speak.

  “And for what it’s worth,” he added, his voice softer now, “I like this version of you. Even if you don’t.”

  The fire popped softly, and I looked at him again. This time, I didn’t look away.

  “You’re not exactly the same man I met, either.”

  He smirked. “I was charming even then.”

  I snorted. “You were irritating.”

  “Admit it, you’d miss it if I stopped.”

  I shook my head, but my smile lingered. The space between us felt smaller somehow. Not just in distance, but in something quieter. Warmer. Like maybe I didn’t want to pull away this time.

  “Goodnight, Art.”

  “Night, Celeste.”

  I stood slowly, letting the warmth of the fire carry me partway down the hall. But before I disappeared into the dark, I glanced back.

  His eyes stayed on me, and this time… I wanted them to.

  The fire whispered behind me, soft and steady, as the house settled into silence.

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