Artemis

  The square was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of silence that only follows slaughter, when even the wind holds its breath. I kept my blade up all the same, smoke still curling in ragged streams across the dirt.

  Bodies don’t always mean the fight is done. Not in my experience.

  The heat lingered, radiating from the ground where fire had kissed it. Ash floated down in lazy spirals, clinging to my clothes, to the hilt of my sword and the blood that still dripped from its edge. I drew a slow breath, steadying the current inside me.

  The graybeard lay sprawled at my feet, eyes still open, glassy in death. Fear had frozen there, etched into him. I forced myself to look past it.

  What mattered was whether anyone else was waiting. Whether more of them would come. My gaze swept the edges of the square, through smoke, across shuttered windows. The surrounding area rang with crackle of dying flame, the ragged breaths of the villagers pressed in around me. Some clutched pitchforks and knives like they weren’t sure whether to hold them tighter or let them drop. Others had fled into doorways, peering out from the shadows. All of them were watching.

  My gaze found Celeste in the press of faces. She hadn’t run. Her eyes fixed on me, wide and searching, like she wasn’t sure who she was looking at anymore.

  I exhaled once, slowly, and kept the blade raised. Lowering it would come later.

  Movement stirred at the edge of the crowd. Celeste broke from the press of bodies, her steps light but steady across the blood-spattered floor. The smoke parted around her, strands of red hair catching in the dim light as she came closer.

  She didn’t flinch at the corpses. Didn’t look away from me. Whatever fear lived in the others, she held it differently. Like she was weighing me against what she’d already endured and found me the lesser of two terrors.

  Her voice was low, meant for me and no one else. “It’s done.”

  I let the words hang between us. To her, it was over. For me, it never was. Not until every loose end was tied off. My grip eased just enough that I could rest the blade at my side, but I didn’t sheath it. A drawn weapon speaks louder than any promise of peace.

  Smoke shifted at the edge of the crowd. Calla emerged, shawl pulled close, her eyes flicking from the bodies to me. She wasn’t a woman easily cowed, but her steps slowed the nearer she came. Behind her, a handful of villagers followed, weapons still clutched in white-knuckled hands.

  I didn’t move. Let them come. The dead told their own story, and the living would be weighing it against what they thought of me.

  Calla stopped just short of the bloodstained dirt, the others fanning out behind her.

  When I finally broke the silence, my voice was steady, carrying just enough to reach every ear. “These men won’t be needing their coin. Or their weapons. The horses are still nearby. All of it is yours.”

  A ripple went through the crowd. The faintest stir of hunger in desperate faces. Hands tightened on pitchforks, not in threat but in the reflex of men and women imagining what they could trade.

  I let the sound of it build, let them taste the thought before I added, softer now, almost conversational. “All I ask is that you see these men to rest. They came here with fire in their hands, but they met their end standing, and that deserves more than to be left for crows. Give them graves worthy enough to quiet their spirits.”

  I let the words settle and raised my eyes to the crowd, meeting their gazes one by one. Not hard, not demanding. A steady, almost imploring look. A soldier asking neighbors to share in a burden he couldn’t carry alone.

  “And as for their shame… let it stay buried with them. No good comes from repeating how a dozen men and their Casters fell to one man. Best we let the dead keep their dignity.”

  A murmur rippled through them, low and uneven. Someone exhaled sharply, another shifted their grip until the haft of a pitchfork scraped against the stones. A few of the younger men glanced at one another, as fi to test whether anyone would speak, but no words came. The promise of coin and horses tugged at them, stronger than fear, and stronger than the urge to question me.

  One by one, weapons dipped, or lowered enough to show where their thoughts had gone. Toward hunger. Toward survival.

  Calla broke the silence at last, her voice carrying the weight of someone the rest already listened to. “We’ll see them buried. Properly.” She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, her gaze steady on me, sharper than the rest. “And the rest… best left in the earth where it belongs.”

  It wasn’t quite agreement. Not entirely. But it was close enough that the others relaxed by degrees, their fear softening into something else, wariness, but threaded now with a flicker of relief.

  I gave the smallest nod, my sword still resting at my side, the edge uncleaned.

  Celeste stood only a step from me now, her presence quiet but unshaken, and I saw the way Calla’s gaze softened when it found her. That single look said more than words. History, loyalty, and a promise already kept once today.

  Behind Calla, the villagers began to shift. The square was heavy with smoke and blood, but the weight of it all had shifted. The fight was over. What remained was only the burying.

  The spell of stillness broke in pieces. A few men edged forward, eyes darting between the bodies and me, before stooping to drag the dead toward the edge of the square. Others slipped past, heading for the horses or rifling through packs with the sharp, guilty hunger of those who hadn’t seen coin in too long.

  Calla stayed where she was, watching, until a man and woman came up behind her. One leaned in, whispering quick and low into her ear, then another. Calla’s jaw tightened, her hand flexing against the shawl at her shoulder before she turned back to us.

  “I’ll be holding a meeting,” she said, her voice pitched to carry just far enough. “We’ve matters to settle after… this.” She didn’t look at the corpses when she said it. Didn’t look at Celeste either, though I saw the weight of her glance linger there a heartbeat too long before it shifted back to me. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  A few of the villagers fell in at her side, following as she moved off toward the hall at the end of the square’s far end, her steps brisk, shoulders slightly hunched from age.

  As I slid the blade into its sheath, a man stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with dirt still clinging to his work clothes. He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Didn’t reckon you would have been able to stand against that… but you showed me different,” he said. “You saved more than a few lives here tonight.”

  I held his gaze for a moment, then gave the smallest nod. Gratitude was harder to meet than suspicion, and I wasn’t about to linger in it.

  The man dipped his head once more and backed away, melting into the crowd as if the words had cost him more than the fight itself. Others shifted uneasily, torn between following his example and keeping their distance.

  Only Celeste stayed close, her eyes still on me. She hadn’t spoken since the fight ended, and the weight of her silence pressed harder than the villagers’ stares. Finally, her voice broke through it, soft but steady.

  “We should head back to Calla’s,” she said. “Get out from under all these eyes. Maybe even have something to eat. It’s not really breakfast anymore… maybe latefast?”

  The corner of my mouth twitched, and before I could stop it, a short laugh escaped me. “It’s brunch.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That just sounds silly. Latefast sounded better.”

  For a moment, the smoke, the blood, the corpses – none of it mattered. Just her, trying to pull me out of the weight of it all, and me letting her.

  We slipped away from the square together, the crowd parting in uneasy silence as we passed. Their whispers followed us, low and sharp, but none stepped in our way. Celeste kept close, her shoulder brushing mine once before she caught herself and gave a small, nervous smile.

  Once we arrived at Calla’s and the door shut behind us, for the first time all morning, the noise of the village fell away.

  “I’ll get the fire going,” Celeste said quickly, already moving toward the hearth. Her hands were steady, but I could hear the edge in her voice. There was a kind of tension that comes when silence weighs too heavy.

  I didn’t argue. The stink of smoke and blood clung to me like a second skin. “I’ll wash up.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The basin held only cold water, but Fire Casting soon brought it to a tolerable warmth, and by the time I’d scrubbed the fight from my skin and pulled on my clean clothes, the smell of eggs and bread had filled the house.

  She bent over the table when I stepped back into the main room, hair falling across her face as she laid out two bowls. She glanced up, and small smile that tugged at her lips was different from the one she’d worn in the square. Softer, freer.

  “Here, enjoy your latefast,” she said, sliding a bowl toward me. “And I don’t care what you call it.”

  I shook my head, the ghost of that earlier laugh still lingering. “Brunch,” I said again, just to see her roll her eyes.

  The chair creaked as I leaned forward, spoon in hand. For the first time since the square, the world felt still. No blades, no fire, no stares pressing in from every side. Just the clatter of dishes and the sound of her breath across the table from me.

  Celeste set her spoon down, her eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “Well, at least you don’t smell anymore. That’s an improvement.”

  I took a slow sip from my cup before answering. “Suppose you’ll be telling me to bathe every day now.”

  She smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  I shook my head, but a laugh escaped free all the same. The warmth of it didn’t last long. Her smile faded, replaced by something sharper.

  “I recognized them,” she said quietly. “Back in the square. They were the same men who questioned me in Dunwade. They followed us here. To my village.”

  Her spoon toyed at the edge of the bowl, pushing crumbs into the egg. “What if there are more? What if others come looking and someone speaks?”

  “They won’t.” My voice was steady, matter-of-fact.

  Her gaze flicked up, searching. “You sound certain. Why?”

  I leaned back slightly in the chair, letting the question settle before answering. “They’ll keep quiet,” I said. “I gave them something better to talk about. Coin, horses, steel.”

  Her brow furrowed. “And the silence?”

  I set my spoon down, meeting her eyes. “I bought it. They’ll lay the dead to rest and let the shame die with them.”

  Her lips quirked faintly, though her eyes stayed serious. “You make it sound so simple. Like buying bread at market.”

  “Bread costs less,” I said.

  She propped her chin on her hand, watching me across the table. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

  The door cracked open as we were finishing the last of the bread. Calla stepped inside, pulling her shawl loose as she set her basket down by the door. Her sharp eyes flicked from the empty bowls to the steam still curling in the air.

  “Well,” she said, one brow lifting, “looks like the two of you managed your own noonmeal just fine.”

  Celeste glanced at me, the faintest spark of amusement tugging at her lips. I let out a breath through my nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough. The name had stuck now, whether I liked it or not.

  Calla hung her shawl by the door, then crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair at the table. Her hands rested on the wood for a long moment before she spoke.

  “The meeting ran longer than it should have,” she said. “Plenty of words, not much worth in most of them.” She glanced at the two of us, her eyes softer than her tone. “Some argued we shouldn’t have taken their coin or their horses. Said it wasn’t right.”

  Celeste’s brow furrowed. “After what they did?”

  Calla shook her head. “Others made the same point. That those men would’ve bled some of us if you hadn’t stopped them. And most agreed at the end. But the real fear wasn’t the bodies or the spoils.”

  Her gaze flicked between us, lingering a breath longer on Celeste. “It was you, girl. Word is out. They know there’s a price on your head. That was at the heart of it – the bounty. What happens when more come? We’ve no steel here, not enough to stand against men like those again.”

  Celeste’s shoulders dipped, her hand tightening on the rim of her bowl.

  “And then there was talk of him.” Calla’s eyes slid to me now. “Plenty want you to stay. To keep the village safe. Some even said–” She hesitated, her expression unreadable “that if you’re with her, maybe you already mean to.”

  The silence that followed was sharp, heavy enough to press down on all three of us. Celeste’s gaze fell to the table. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, but I caught the tension in her jaw, the way her breath drew just a little tighter. They would have her if it meant having me. Her place here was conditional. Mine wasn’t.

  “They won’t have to worry about it,” I said, my voice even. “She’s not staying. Neither am I.”

  Calla studied me for a moment, then gave the smallest nod, as if she’d expected no other answer.

  Across from me, Celeste’s shoulders eased, the faintest breath of relief escaping before she caught it. Whatever ache had stirred at Calla’s words seemed to quiet, leaving only the steady weight of what came next.

  Calla went on. “That’s what I told them. That you two wouldn’t be putting down roots here. Some grumbled, but most saw the sense in it.”

  Her fingers tapped once against the table, slow and thoughtful. “They’ll keep the bargain. Bury the bodies, take the coin and the horses, and hold their tongues. Fear will do the rest.”

  Celeste looked up, searching Calla’s face. “And if more come?”

  “Then we’ll deal with it when it happens.” Calla’s tone was firm, but her eyes softened as they fell on her. “But for now, you’ve done enough. Both of you.”

  Celeste sat back, her fingers tracing the rim of her bowl. “We should be leaving soon.”

  Calla’s gaze lingered on her, heavy with thought. “So soon? There’s no harm in staying a little longer. The road won’t run off.”

  After a moment of silence, Celeste made her choice. “We’ll stay,” she said quietly. “No more than a few days, until I can sleep without flinching.”

  For a heartbeat Calla looked surprised, then her shoulders eased with relief. She nodded, embracing herself with her arms. “Good. Then rest while you can. I’m going to prepare myself a meal, I haven’t had anything yet to eat.”

  “I’ll help,” Celeste said, rising quickly before Calla could wave her off. She took up a knife from the counter, setting to work with an eager, if clumsy, determination.

  Calla arched a brow, watching the first uneven slice fall away. “If you swing that knife like you chop, I pity the poor fool who stands in front of you.”

  Celeste smirked, brushing the hair back from her face. “Guess I’m better at mending than cutting anyway.”

  “And if you mend as slow as you chop, I’d hate to be your patient.”

  Celeste laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she attacked the next slice with exaggerated care. “Lucky for you I’ve had practice. You’d be surprised what I can mend.”

  Calla gave her a sidelong look, lips tugging into something between amusement and fondness. “Mending’s all well and good, but don’t think I won’t make you eat those crooked pieces when the pot’s done.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” Celeste said, grinning.

  “Life’s not fair, sometimes,” Calla retorted, dropping another handful of chopped greens into the pot. The words were sharp, but her tone softened at the edges, carrying more warmth than bite.

  I sat a few paces back, my sword balanced across my lap, the steady rasp of cloth against steel keeping time with their chatter. The blood had long been scrubbed from my skin, but the blade remembered, and I worked until the edge gleamed.

  The scent of stew soon filled the room, pushing back the memory of fire and ash from the mornings fight. Their voices wove through the small house with Calla’s dry wit, and Celeste’s laughter, and for a little while, it sounded almost like peace.

  After a time, I rose, sliding the cleaned blade back into its sheath. “I’ll see to the horses,” I said, more to the air than to either of them.

  Celeste glanced up from where she was stirring, lips parting like she meant to offer help, but Calla nudged her shoulder with the back of her hand. “Let him go. You’ll only get in the way.”

  I stepped outside, the cooler air brushing against me, sharper now without the fire’s warmth. The horses stirred as I approached, ears flicking, hooves shifting restlessly in the dirt. I set to work in silence, tossing hay into the trough, checking straps, running a hand down a flank until their breathing slowed.

  That was when I felt it. Eyes on me.

  Two villagers hovered a short distance off, their hands empty, their shoulders tight. One carried a bundle of carrots tucked under his arm, the other stood with nothing but the look of a man torn between gratitude and unease.

  They edged closer, the braver of the two clearing his throat. “For the horses,” he muttered, holding out the bundle.

  I took it without a word, setting it by the trough.

  The man shifted, his weight moving from one foot to the other. “If more come…” His voice cracked, then steadied. “If more come, you’ll cut them down the same, won’t you?”

  I kept my eyes on the horse as I ran a hand along its bridle. “If they force me to.”

  Silence stretched, broken only by the quiet rip of hay between teeth.

  The villager gave a sharp nod, almost a bow, then turned back toward the towns center. His companion followed, still unable to meet my gaze.

  I stayed by the horses a while longer, running my hand down a withers until the steady rhythm of their breathing matched the quiet of the yard. The bundle of carrots lay untouched in the trough.

  The door creaked behind me, and I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

  “I’ve come to help,” Celeste said, not asking, already walking toward me with her sleeves rolled.

  I gave the faintest shake of my head, but I didn’t stop her. Together we moved through the packs, opening satchels, shifting supplies onto the ground. We counted the coin first. Heavy still, more than enough to keep us moving towards our next destination. She stacked the silver neatly, her fingers quick, her brow drawn in concentration.

  Next came the weapons. I drew out a crossbow I had purchased earlier in the day before the fight broke out. It’s string frayed but serviceable, and laid it across my knee while I checked the bolts.

  Celeste’s laugh broke the quiet, bright and sudden. “Why do you even need that? You could just throw arrows like spears, like you did before.”

  I glanced up at her, expression steady. “Stange to carry arrows but no bow.”

  Her smile widened. “You planning to use both at once? Cast with one hand, shoot with the other?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She shook her head, laughing again. “You’re worse than a magpie, hoarding shiny things.”

  A snort escaped me before I could help it, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Hoarding’s fine, as long as you win with it.” I set the crossbow aside and drew the bolts together in a neat bundle.

  We finished sorting the packs, then walked the town for a while, keeping to the quieter streets. Celeste carried water for Calla, and I bartered a few coins for bread and oil. Villagers watched us with the kind of eyes that weighed fear against gratitude. By the time the shadows stretched long, we’d seen all we needed of the place, and Calla was calling us back to the table.

  The stew Calla and Celeste made was simple but filling, heavy with root vegetables and the kind of seasoning born of necessity rather than choice. We ate without hurry, the warmth of the food easing the edge of the long day.

  When the bowls were empty, Calla gathered them into the basin, wiped her hands on her apron, and gave us both a look that landed somewhere between stern and weary. “You’ve done enough for one day. Get some rest. Tomorrow will come fast.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer before retreating down the hall to her room. The sound of her door shutting left the house in a hush broken only by the crackle of the hearth.

  I settled back onto the floor where I’d left my gear, sword propped within reach, the warmth of the flames casting long shadows up the walls.

  The door to Celeste’s room opened a moment later. She stepped out with her bedroll tucked under her arm.

  I frowned. “There’s a bed in there, you know.”

  She knelt beside the hearth, already spreading the blanket across the floor. “I’d rather sleep near the fire.”

  “You’ll get a better night’s rest on a mattress.”

  Her hands smoothed the fabric flat, her voice calm but firm. “The fire’s warmer. Besides…” She glanced at me, just long enough. “I don’t mind the company.”

  I watched her for a moment, then shook my head with a faint huff. “Stubborn as ever.”

  She only smiled, settling onto the blanket and turning toward the fire. The silence stretched, lighter now, softer.

  I lay back against the floorboards, the weight of the day pressing down but not unwelcome. Her breathing evened beside me, quiet and steady, until the house itself seemed to match it.

  For once, I didn’t mind the company either.