Celeste

  Morning came too soon. The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, casting only a dull glow, and the boards beneath my blanket felt harder than they had the nights before. For a long while I stayed still, listening to the rhythm of Art’s breathing lying next to me, steady as the slow rise of dawn. My own chest felt tighter, caught somewhere between rest and the weight of what waited ahead.

  The smell of bread pulled me up first, warm and sharp, followed by the scrape of Calla’s chair legs against the floorboards. She had risen before us. By the time I sat at the table, she was already setting out bowls, her shawl pulled close against the morning chill. It was a scene I’d grown used to over the past few days we’ve stayed here, and part of me wished I could hold onto it longer.

  “Eat before you go,” she said, brisk, though her eyes softened when they landed on me.

  Art joined a moment later, quiet as always, lowering himself on the chair. He tore bread in half and slid a piece my way. The three of us ate without much talk. Calla with her measured patience, Art with the calm precision of someone who never wasted a bite, and me trying not to let the food catch in my throat.

  Leaving was the right choice. I knew that. Still, each glance at Calla’s hands as she folded the cloth napkin, each note of her voice as she reminded me to keep to the main roads, pressed deeper than I expected. I wasn’t family here, not truly, but she had given me shelter and warmth when I needed it most.

  When the bowls were emptied, silence pressed in again. Calla only shook her head when I tried to help with the washing, and instead she gripped my hand tight in both of hers. “Keep your promise, girl. But don’t lose yourself to it.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. Words would’ve broken something I wanted to leave whole.

  Outside, the air was sharp with dew. Our horses shifted at the posts, snorting clouds of white into the chill. I ran my hand down the nearest flank, grounding myself in the solid warmth before swinging up into the saddle. Art was already mounted, reins steady in his hands.

  Calla lingered in the doorway, her shawl drawn tight, the lines on her face deepened in the pale morning light. I lifted my reins, throat tightening. “We’ll come back,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a lie.

  Beside me, Art shifted in his saddle. His voice carried low across the yard. “You gave us a place to rest when we had no right to ask. I won’t forget it.”

  For a moment, something softened in Calla’s eyes. Then she only nodded, arms folded close as if to hold herself together.

  The road stretched ahead, damp with morning mist. Our horses’ hooves clopped in steady rhythm, the sound carrying across fields still heavy with dew. For a while, neither of us spoke. Calla’s village fell away behind us, its smoke rising faint against the gray horizon, until even that was gone.

  I kept my eyes forward, though a part of me wanted to look back again. Each league laid weight behind us. Faylen’s face pressed against that memory, her voice in the dark and our promise of escape. I urged my horse a little faster.

  Art rode at an easy pace, steady and unhurried. His shoulders were relaxed, but his gaze drifted over the rise and fall of the hills, always watchful. Time seemed to slip into the rhythm of hooves, the creak of leather, and the occasional call of a bird overhead.

  When the sun climbed higher, spilling light over the open fields, Art finally broken the silence.

  “We’ve a long road still before Rodin.” He glanced my way, his expression unreadable. “That makes it the perfect time for lessons.”

  I straightened in the saddle, my pulse quickening. Lessons. I had hoped for it, expected it even, but hearing the words sent both nerves and anticipation rushing through me. We couldn’t have any lessons while back in the village for risk of exposure.

  Art rode in silence for a time, eyes following the rise and fall of the hills. Then he said, almost offhand, “If we’re going to make use of the road before us, we’ll start with the basics. Casting’s young, you know that much.”

  “I know casting’s not much older than a century,” I said. “But do you know exactly when it began?”

  He shifted the reins, gaze never leaving the road.

  “Less than a hundred and forty years. Before then, no one drew flame from their own body, or bent light through their hands. No records, no stories. Just… nothing. Then, slowly, people began to change. A spark here, a glow there. Abilities no one understood, no one expected. At first, it was rare enough to dismiss as madness or trickery. But it spread. Not fast, not all at once. Just a few more with each generation, like the world was waking something that had been asleep.”

  He flicked the reins lightly, his tone steady as if reciting a rule.

  “Remember this: every cast begins with the body. Fire, water, wind, ice, lightning – all of it starts in the caster, never apart from them. Earth’s the only exception, but even then, you need contact. No touch, no control. As Variants continue to grow and new ones discovered, there may be some adjustments to these principles, but for now they hold true for most casters.”

  I nodded, filing it away, though questions pressed at the edge of my tongue. He answered one of them before I could ask.

  “Once energy leaves your vessel, it’s yours alone. If a Fire Caster sets a blaze, another Fire Caster can’t seize it. They can’t snuff it out or turn it against them. They can only strike it with their own power, overwhelm it, or counter it with another element. Ownership stays with the hand that cast it. Always.”

  Art’s gaze swept the open hills as we rode, the steady rhythm of hooves filling the silence between us. Then he finally spoke again.

  “You already understand the vessel. How every Caster is born with a well. Some deep. Some shallow. How training can make you sharper, but not deeper, with few exceptions. That much is true.”

  I gave a small nod, fingers tightening on the reins.

  “But a vessel doesn’t just hold power. It decides how that power can be shaped. All elements sit in the vessel differently. That’s why most people only carry one. Their vessel fits it. Try to force in another element, and the seams crack.”

  My stomach dipped. “But not for you.”

  “Not for me,” he said evenly. “And not for you. Our vessels stretch where others break.” His eyes flicked my way. “That’s rare. Dangerous, if you don’t know the limits. Useful, if you do.”

  I shifted in the saddle, the words clicking into place.

  “And recovery?” I asked. “How fast does a vessel fill again?”

  “Slow,” he said simply. “Like a spring. Sleep helps. Food helps. But there’s no trick, no shortcut. That’s why most Casters guard every drop carefully.”

  He glanced at me then, his tone shifting just slightly.

  “But Healers are different. Their recovery comes faster. No one knows why for certain. Some say it’s because they’re mending themselves without realizing. Patching small tears in the vessel the way they patch wounds in the body. Whatever the reason, they recover both strength and stamina quicker than any other Caster. You especially.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  I let that sink in, my pulse quickening. Before I could speak, he went on.

  “And that’s why, if you want to grow stronger, you’ll have to do what others can’t. You’ll have to push yourself into Enervation.”

  I turned to him sharply. “On purpose?”

  “Yes.” His gaze never left the horizon. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “A vessel doesn’t grow from comfort. It grows from being torn and mended, again and again. You survived it once. You’ll survive it again. And each time, your well will stretch further.”

  My grip tightened on the reins. “But you said–”

  “I said it kills most Casters. But you aren’t most Casters.” His eyes flicked toward me, steady and unflinching. “You’re a Healer. Your body will mend itself even as you collapse. That’s your edge. That’s why we can do this.”

  I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing in.

  He didn’t let me linger in doubt.

  “We’ll start small. While we ride. You’ll be sitting in front of me on my horse so that when you fall, I’ll be there behind you to catch you.”

  The words landed heavier than I expected. Sitting in front of him. I’d pictured lessons, yes – straining myself, maybe collapsing – but not pressed that close, not with his arms braced to hold me when I fell. My stomach tightened, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

  I shifted in the saddle, focusing on the reins in my hands as if they might steady me. The thought of falling unconscious while he held me should have been a comfort. Instead, it sparked something else. Nerves that had nothing to do with Enervation.

  I forced my voice steady. “That sounds… dangerous.”

  His expression didn’t change. “It is. But it’s the only way forward.”

  I pressed my lips together, trying to push the heat from my cheeks. He acted like it was nothing – like the thought of me slumping against him half-dead was just another step in a lesson. Maybe for him it was.

  I cleared my throat, reaching for something else to think about. “You’re an Aberration. Does that mean you can cast two elements in the same hand?”

  His mouth tugged faintly, though his eyes stayed forward. “No. No one can. It isn’t how casting works. Each hand can only channel one element at a time, no matter what’s in your vessel. That’s true for me, it’s true for everyone.”

  I blinked, surprised. “So what’s the difference then?”

  “For most Casters,” he said, “Channeling the same element in both hands at the same time is already considered skilled casting. It takes control, focus. Few ever reach it. But Aberrations, those of us who can cast more than one element, can do more. We can split one element in each hand, at the same time, but that takes even more skill than casting the same element. That’s as far as it goes.”

  I thought back to the fight, my heart quickening. “But… when I used Ardor in the forest, I split it. One hand to the left, the other in front of me. I remember it.”

  His gaze cut toward me, sharp, assessing. “Exactly. You cast the same element in two different directions. That kind of split is rare, Celeste. Some Casters never manage it at all, even after years of training. You did it without realizing what you were doing.”

  I stared at him, breath caught in my chest. “I thought anyone could.”

  “You’d be wrong,” he said, his tone steady, almost quiet. “What you did wasn’t common. It wasn’t normal. It was talent.”

  The word tightened in my chest. Talent. It sounded like praise, but his gaze was too sharp for comfort.

  “Don’t let it fool you,” he went on. “Raw talent is dangerous. You split your casting because instinct drove you there, not control. That kind of power without discipline can tear through your well as fast as an enemy. If you lean on it before you’ve learned to guide it, it’ll burn you out long before it saves you.”

  I swallowed, heat prickling at my cheeks. “It worked, didn’t it? If I hadn’t done it, I’d be dead.”

  His eyes stayed on the road, but his jaw tightened. “It worked this time. Don’t mistake luck for mastery.”

  The words stung, but not unfairly. I shifted in the saddle, staring out across the hills. Reckless or not, he was right about one thing: I couldn’t rely on instinct alone. Not anymore.

  I shifted in the saddle, still stung by his words, but he pressed on, his tone steady.

  “There’s something else you need to understand. Ignition.”

  My brows drew together. “Ignition?”

  He nodded. “The moment a Caster first awakens their element. It can happen at any stage of life, but it’s most common in the younger years, when a vessel is still growing. Teenagers, usually. Children sometimes. Rarely adults. But no one knows why some are born with the spark while others live and die without it.”

  His gaze lingered on the horizon. “The most common theory is that everyone carries the chance for one element. But chance alone isn’t enough. To ignite it, something has to strike. An experience, an emotion so sharp it tears the vessel open. Fire Casters often awaken in anger, fear, or burning resolve. A storm inside to match the storm they summon. But if a Wind Caster feels that same rage, it won’t matter. Their spark won’t catch. Every element has its own key.”

  A chill ran down my spine. “And Ardor?” I asked quietly.

  For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then his voice dropped lower, weight heavier. “I’ve told you once that I met an Ardor Caster. They told me it came to them in terror. In violation. In the fight to resist what should have broken them.”

  The words sank like a stone. My throat closed, but I forced myself to keep my gaze forward.

  His eyes flicked toward me, searching, though his face stayed steady. “From what I saw in the forest, when you faced Jacque… I think your path wasn’t so different.”

  I said nothing. Couldn’t. My hands tightened around the reins until the leather bit into my palms. He didn’t press, and for that I was grateful.

  After a moment, his voice softened, almost like a reprieve. “Ignition’s never easy. But once it happens, it changes everything. That moment defines not just the element you carry, but how you’ll use it.”

  Art’s words hung in the air, heavy as stone.

  He let the silence stretch before his voice softened. “That’s enough for now. The rest can wait.”

  The road carried us onward in quiet hills rolled out in every direction, the sky wide and endless above them. My chest stayed tight, but after a while my thoughts drifted elsewhere. Back to the village we’d left behind. I wondered if Calla had started her day with the same latefast we made together, if she’d managed another laugh with one of her neighbors, if the silence in her house already felt larger without us in it.

  I shifted in the saddle, the ache in my legs dulled by the steady rhythm of the horse beneath me. The sun climbed higher, the morning stretching thin into noon. Shadows shortened, and the air warmed with the scent of grass and tilled earth. For a long while I let the silence stand, losing myself in the rise and fall of the hills, in the way the road bent onward without end.

  Time passed by with the rhythm of hooves. My thoughts turned over one after another until finally they settled back on the thing I’d been circling since this morning. I drew a slow breath.

  “When am I supposed to start?”

  Art’s gaze slid toward me, steady, and unreadable. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  The words struck harder than I expected. Heat crept up the back of my neck again, and for a moment I wished he’d told me not yet. That we needed more time. Instead, the choice sat heavy in my hands.

  I tugged at the reins to slow my horse as he did the same, then swung down, boots landing firm on the dirt. My fingers worked quickly, tying my mount’s lead rope to Art’s saddle. My stomach twisted as I crossed to his side, cheeks hot under the wide sky. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I put a foot to the stirrup and climbed onto his horse, settling stiffly in front of him.

  His presence loomed steady behind me, every shift pressing me closer to him. Heat rose in my face, I forced my shoulders back, as if good posture might disguise the way my body betrayed me.

  “All right,” I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “I’m ready.”

  Art shifted behind me, steadying the reins in one hand. “We’re going to be doing two things at once. You’ll learn to cast Ardor with control, and when your vessel runs dry, you’ll push into Enervation. I don’t want you wasting it all in one strike. You’ll get there slow, not reckless.”

  I nodded, though my throat felt tight.

  His voice stayed calm, almost detached, as if he were talking me through a simple drill. “Start with the basics. One hand, then the other. Then both together.”

  So I did. Over and over, he had me call the light, shaping it in my palms, releasing it before it burned too long. Left hand, right hand. Both together. Again and again until my arms ached with the effort of holding them steady.

  “Now, pulse it. Small flares, sharp and quick. Like a beacon.”

  I bit down on my lip and focused, sending the light in flickers. Some came too strong, others sputtered weakly.

  “Good. Keep it even. Control the flow, not the brightness.”

  The sun was climbing higher as we rode, and still he pressed me forward. He had me draw the light small and precise, no larger than a coin, then spread it wide across both hands until it blinded me. He made me shape it, compress it, release it, then call it back again.

  At some point, sweat beading on my brow, I became sharply aware of him behind me. Close, steady, his voice a constant on my back. And under it all, faint but certain, the scent of leather, smoke, and something cleaner, sharper. It startled me, how good he smelled. How safe, almost – before I forced myself to drag my thoughts back to the light burning in my palms.

  It felt endless, each new demand driving the vessel lower and lower. My breath grew shallow, my vision edging with black. Sweat stung my eyes, and still his voice came steady at my back.

  “Not much longer. Let it drain slow. Keep shaping it, keep it steady. When it breaks, I’ll catch you.”

  The glow faltered, flickering out between my fingers. My body ached with emptiness, hollow as a drained well. The reins slipped from my grasp as the world blurred, weightless and distant. Strong arms closed around my waist, firm and certain, drawing me back against him.

  “Easy,” Art murmured, his breath warm at my ear. “I’ve got you.”

  Then the dark took me.